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IT WAS x\ QUAINT, OLD-TIME FORMAL THING THAT 
GRANNY AND MARJORY DANCED.’’ (See page /J.j 






MARJORY AT 
THE WILLOWS 


Sy 

ALICE E. ALLEN 

n 

Jluthor of 

“Marjory, the Circus Girl,” "Joe, the Circus Boy,*’ etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 

Bu 

JOHN GOSS 



THE PAGE COMPANY 

BOSTON ^ MDCCCCXX 



Copyright, 1920, by 
The Page Company 


All rights reserved 


First Impression, January, 1920 


THE COLONIAL PRESS 
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. 


ffS I i (S20 

©CI.A55971 4 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

An Apple-Blossom Wedding . 


PAGE 

1 

II 

Marjory’s Plan .... 

. 

. l8 

III 

The House of the Grandmothers , 

. 33 

IV 

Roger . 


. 51 

V 

A Left-Over Birthday . 


69 

VI 

The Pony Cart .... 


87 

VII 

The House in the Woods . 


105 

VIII 

The Cruise of the “Water Lily” . 

123 

IX 

Granny Takes a Ride 


143 

X 

Two Little Granddaughters 


159 

XI 

The Crimson Rambler . 


177 

XII 

The Circus 


199 

XIII 

Blazing a Trail .... 


218 

XIV 

The Pearl Box .... 


240 

XV 

Good Times Camp .... 


255 

XVI 

Unexpected Guests . 


272 

XVII 

Under the Old Willow . 

. 

289 

XVIII 

Two Letters and a Postscript 

. 

302 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

It was a quaint, old-time, formal thing 
THAT Granny and Marjory danced ” 

(See page 7s) . . . Frontispiece ^ 

“‘Why, how many are there?’ cried 
Marjory, holding fast to the bit of 
A hand” ...... 43 ^ 

“ She swayed and whirled and poised air- 
ily ON THE pine-needles ” . 6 i ^ 

“ The children crouched miserably under 

THE TREES ” ..... 134/'^ 

“The parade started out from The Wil- 
lows ” ....... 204 ^ 

“ The three children stared at him ” . 262 ^ 


$ 


» 


flDarjor^ at the Millows 


CHAPTER I 
AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

M arjory smiled across at Lissy, 
all pink and white, a bunch of 
apple-blossoms held firmly in 
one hand. Lissy smiled back. Marjory 
was all pink and white, too. She held her 
bouquet daintily. Both little bridesmaids 
smiled at the bride. Miss Doris was sweet 
as an apple-bloom herself. Brother John 
Penny stood beside her. Before them, was 
the minister, who was Miss Doris’s own 
father, saying something very sweet and 
solemn. 

Near by, was the Uncle who had given 
1 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Miss Doris away. With him, was a bunch 
of her friends — her mother, an aunt or two, 
and any number of cousins and school- 
chums. In the background were Aunt 
Melissa Penny, Marjory’s father, Lissy’s 
father, and the three Penny boys, scrubbed 
and polished till they shone. Trixy, the 
smallest of the Pennys, stood close to the 
bride. She looked important, and just a 
little anxious. For didn’t she hold, in its 
nest of apple-blooms, the ring that was go- 
ing on the bride’s finger? 

For a whole year, Marjory and Lissy had 
looked forward to this day — the wedding- 
day of Brother John and Doris Dean, their 
little school-teacher. “It must be in ap- 
ple-blossom time,” Miss Doris had said. 

And when Lissy and Marjory and the 
rest of John’s family had come, the night 
before, ’way up into the hills where Miss 
3 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

Doris lived, they had traveled through miles 
and miles of applef-blossoms. They had 
found Miss Doris’s home set right down in 
a perfect bower of rosy bloom. There had 
been no need to lay rugs or raise arches for 
the wedding. The grass had spread a car- 
pet, soft as velvet, and dotted with dande- 
lions. The trees raised beautiful arches all 
the way through the yard, straight to the 
oldest one of them all, under which stood 
the bridal party. The air was warm and 
sweet. At every breath, pink petals drifted 
down. Birds twittered and sang and built 
their nests. 

John was slipping the ring on Doris’s 
hand now. She smiled up at him. There 
was a prayer, beautiful and hushed, out 
there in the old orchard. Then, every one 
was laughing and shaking hands with John 
and kissing Miss Doris. Only she wasn’t 
3 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Miss Doris any more, but Mrs. John Penny. 

An hour later, the bride had gone show- 
ered with petals, her cheeks pink as the 
pinkest one of all. The two little brides- 
maids were upstairs getting ready for the 
long ride back home. From a room across 
the hall, came sounds from the other little 
Pennys also getting ready. 

“Sister Doris,” said Lissy, softly trying 
the new name. “Wasn’t it the loveliest 
wedding?” she went on. She sank down 
on the floor in a tired, happy little heap to 
take off her strap-slippers. The strap- 
slippers were tired, too. Of course they 
were very new and very shiny, as brides- 
maid’s slippers should be. And since early 
morning they had been on the feet of a very 
busy little bridesmaid. 

“It’s lovely to be a bridesmaid,” said 
Marjory. She was taking off strap-slip- 
4 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

pers, too. But while Lissy Penny took off 
each little shoe carefully, and polished anx- 
iously at what might be a tiny scratch on 
the toe of one, Marjory Brook kicked hers 
off carelessly. It was the very first pair 
of strap-slippers Lissy Penny had ever 
owned. And Marjory Brook couldn’t re- 
member the time she hadn’t owned several 
pairs. “I’ve always wanted to be one,” 
went on Marjory, pulling off her big pink 
hair-bow to put on a black one. “And I do 
think it was sweet of sister Doris to ask me. 
Of course, she’d want you, but to want me, 
too!” 

“I’d like to know why she wouldn’t want 
you, too,” said Lissy, slipping into her 
everyday shoes with a sigh of content. 
“You’re every bit as much John’s sister as 
I am.” 

“I know it,” cried Marjory, joyfully. 

5 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


^‘But even after a whole year of knowing 
that I am, I just can’t get used to it. Just 
think, Lissy, if you’d supposed you were the 
only one in your family all your life, and 
then suddenly found out that you had a 
whole brother John and a whole sister Lissy, 
and a half brother Bob and a half brother 
Bert and a half brother Pet and a half 
sister Trixy, and had really had ’em forever 
almost and just hadn’t known it, would you 
ever get used to it?” 

“Isn’t it the splendid-est?” laughed Lissy. 
She took off her big hair-bow, folded it 
neatly, and tucked it away in a small wooden 
box with a quaint carved cover. 

“If you aren’t the greatest girl, Lissy 
Penny!” cried Marjory. “Did you bring 
that little old box just to put your hair- 
bow in?” 

Lissy flushed a little. 

6 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

“I always want to take that box, Margie,” 
she said. know it’s silly, and probably 
it doesn’t look a bit pretty to any one but 
just me. But I’ve always had it, you see, 
ever since I can remember. I just can’t 
bear to leave it alone there on the table.” 

“How funny,” laughed Marjory. “You 
take such good care of all your things, 
Lissy.” 

“I know it,” said Lissy. “But, you see, 
I’ve never had many nice things to take 
care of — and you’ve always had everything. 
You are the most like a story-book girl, 
Margie. First, you came to my father and 
mother — my very own father and mother — 
and then, while you were just a baby, Mr. 
Brook adopted you and neither he nor 
father ever said a word — ” 

“And all that year I lived at Overbrook 
and we never dreamed we were really sis- 
7 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

ters,” cried Marjory, when Lissy paused out 
of breath. 

“Till finally they told us all about it,’’ 
chimed in Lissy. “And we do look a little 
bit alike, although father says I’m more a 
Penny every day, like him, and you are a 
Beach like mother.” 

Both little girls had to drop everything 
here just long enough to glance in the mir- 
ror and see if they still did look alike. 
Their faces were shaped alike, but Lissy’s 
was plumper and pinker. Their hair grew 
alike and waved alike, but Lissy’s was get- 
ting a dark red-brown, while Marjory’s 
was staying golden. Lissy’s eyes were gray 
and twinkly. Marjory’s were dark and 
serious. And Lissy was much taller. 

“I’m always going to be little,” cried 
Marjory with a flounce. “I don’t see why 
I can’t be tall like you, Lissy.” 

8 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

These two little girls were never tired of 
talking about how they had known each 
other several months before they had known 
that they were really sisters. Marjory’s 
own mother, who was Lissy’s too, had died 
when Marjory was born. Marjory had 
been adopted by the Brooks’ — wealthy peo- 
ple who brougljt her up as their own child. 
Mrs. Brook had died when Marjory was 
five. And just before she was eleven, her 
father had sent her to live at Overbrook 
near The Penny Bank, where Lissy lived 
with her little step-brothers and sister. 

^‘And Daddy wanted to adopt you, too, 
Lissy,” Marjory said a little later, as they 
finished packing. 

‘T couldn’t be,” said Lissy. couldn’t 
leave the dear old Penny Bank and father 
and the little Pennys. How could I, 
Margie?” 


9 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“Well, it’s come out pretty well,” said 
Marjory. “Only I would like to have you 
always with me, Lissy. It was dreadfully 
lonely in New York, last winter, without 
you. But isn’t it lovely that Papa Penny 
has that fine position in Daddy’s business? 
And Brother John, too?” 

“Don’t tell,” said Lissy. “But Sister 
Doris has asked me to New York this 
summer to help settle their flat. That was 
what she whispered to me just before she 
went downstairs. Isn’t it the splendid- 
est?” 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do this 
summer, yet,” said Marjory. “You see. 
Daddy’s got to go abroad to look after the 
foreign side of his business he says. I wish 
there wasn’t any foreign side. I don’t like 
to have Daddy go so far away.” 

“You’ll have Papa Penny left,” said Lissy, 
10 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

comfortingly. “Isn’t it lovely to have two 
fathers?” 

By this time, Lissy had slipped into what 
she called her best gown. And Marjory 
had slipped into one of her many best ones. 
Between them, they’d packed the suitcase. 
Lissy’s things went in neatly. Marjory 
wasn’t used to packing, but she managed 
with a little of Lissy’s help. Since she had 
known the Pennys Marjory had learned 
to do many things for herself. 

Downstairs they went, the suitcase bump- 
ing along between them. Faded blossoms 
lay on the stairs, trailed away across the 
hall, out of the front door, across the porch, 
and down the steps, marking the happy foot- 
steps of the bride. 

On the porch were all the Pennys and 
most of the Dean relatives. Miss Doris’s 
relatives were trying to persuade the Pen- 
11 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

nys to stay over another night. Mr. Brook 
was explaining that business couldn’t wait 
long, even for weddings. And the big 
Brook car was standing before the porch. 

It just held them. Mr. Brook drove and 
Papa Penny sat with him. Aunt Melissa 
and the four little Pennys filled the back 
seat. And Marjory and Lissy each had a 
chair. 

The sunset clouds must have been told 
about the apple-blossom wedding. They 
wore just the right shade of pink. At the 
first star that trembled out — just a silver 
speck in the sky — all the Pennys set up a 
shout, and, fingers on lips, made a wish on 
it for John and Doris. The car flew on and 
on between quiet meadows and pastures. 
By and by, it went through a little town, 
where lights sparkled like bright eyes. 

Then they came to another, that was like 
12 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

a child sitting up late. A city came next 
that to Marjory seemed to try to keep from 
nodding. The next one was sound asleep 
and dreaming. She fixed her eyes on a 
great star. The first she knew the car 
dashed along one of its silver rays, straight 
into it, toward a house built all of apple- 
blooms. 

“Oh,” she cried, as the car came to a stop. 
“Did you bring your box, Lissy?” 

“It’s in the suitcase,” said Lissy briskly. 

“Why, it’s The Penny Bank,” said Mar- 
jory, rubbing her eyes. “I thought we were 
in that star, Lissy, and you had your old 
box just full of little bits of stars.” 

Lissy laughed. She was bustling about 
helping to unload all the little Pennys. 

“You’ve been asleep,” she said. “Oh, 
aren’t you glad to get home? The Penny 
Bank’s always so glad to see us.” 

13 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

> Marjory was to stay all night at The 
Penny Bank, as she often did. Daddy and 
Papa Penny would go back to the city at 
daybreak. So she kissed Daddy good 
night. And he went on in the car to Over- 
brook, her own big country home farther up 
the hill. 

Up the steep stairs to bed, the little 
girls stumbled. Lissy took time to shake 
out all the bridesmaid finery. But she tum- 
bled into bed with Marjory as soon as that 
was done. Almost in a wink, or so it 
seemed, it was morning. 

When they came downstairs. Aunt Me- 
lissa was already rolling out cookies. 

“Take your breakfast out on the back 
porch,” she said. “There’s milk in the 
cooler, Lissy, and rolls and strawberries. 
These cookies will be ready by the time you 
are.” 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

Out on the porch, the sunshine was waVm^ 
and the air sweet. Birds trilled the happi- 
est things in the tall old elms. 

‘^It’s ’most like birthday weather,” 
laughed Marjory. 

“Isn’t it nice ours both come in June?” 
said Lissy, drawing up chairs to the little 
table behind the morning-glory vines. 
“What a good time we had last year!” 

“If they were farther apart there’d be 
two parties instead of one,” said Mar- 
jory. 

“I like them better together,” cried Lissy. 

“You’re a whole day younger than I am,” 
teased Marjory. 

“If I wasn’t two years older to start off 
with,” laughed Lissy. 

“It won’t be so nice this year,” said Mar- 
jory, “ ’cause Daddy’ll be gone.” 

“I’ll probably be at Sister Doris’s,” said 
15 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Lissy, pouring out the milk. “Why don’t 
you stay in the city, too, Margie?” 

“Daddy won’t let me,” said Marjory. 
“He thinks I’m not old enough yet to stay 
in that big house unless he’s there, too. 
Not even with Mrs. Brown and Annette.” 

“He’s lost you once,” said Lissy. 
“That’s why he’s so careful of you. If only 
John’s house was bigger. But it’s just a 
little flat, Doris says. She says the room 
where I’m to sleep is like a little closet.” 

“Daddy’d never let me stay in the city, 
anyway, unless he was there,” said Marjory. 

“Never mind,” said Lissy. “I’ll write 
you every day. I’ll be busy — there’s a good 
deal of work about settling a flat, I suppose. 
But I’ll be back by the first of August. I 
couldn’t go at all, if Papa Penny wasn’t in 
the city. I’m always homesick away from 
The Penny Bank.” 


16 


AN APPLE-BLOSSOM WEDDING 

Just here, Aunt Melissa came to the door 
with a plate of crisp, sugary cookies. 

“Here’s a letter for you, Lissy,” she said. 
“It must have come yesterday while we were 
away.” 


17 


CHAPTER II 


MARJORY’S PLAN 

I T was an interesting looking letter. 
Its gray envelope was addressed in a 
clear firm hand to 

“Miss M. Penny, 

Brookside.” 

“Miss M. Penny?” cried Lissy. “How 
funny it sounds, — as if I was all grown up 
and done with it. Who can it be from?” 

“Open it, child, and find out,” said Aunt 
Melissa. She set the plate of cookies on 
the table. 

Lissy opened the letter carefully. She 
drew out a sheet of fine gray paper, that 
smelled of some faint perfume. 

18 


MARJORrS PLAN 


“My dear Granddaughter,” she began. 

“Have I a Grandmother?” she cried, for- 
getting to read any more in her surprise. 

“Your mother’s mother,” cried Aunt 
Melissa. She was almost as much excited 
as Lissy. “Do go on, Lissy. There’s 
never been a word from them since your 
mother married Peter Penny. He wasn’t 
good enough for them.” 

“My father wasn’t good enough for 
them?” said Lissy slowly. Her cheeks 
flamed scarlet. She dropped the letter. 
Marjory just saved it from the milk pitcher. 
“Then — I don’t want to read the letter. 
Aunt Melissa.” 

“Of course, he was good enough,” said 
Aunt Melissa, sorry for her thoughtless 
words. “But it was a wealthy old family, 
dear, and he wasn’t rich enough. Do read 
the letter.” 


19 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


Slowly Lissy took the letter from Mar- 
jory’s hand. 

“Since your mother’s death, I have 
known nothing about you,” she read. 
“But in yesterday’s paper, I read that my 
grandson, John, is to be married, that 
you are to be bridesmaid, and that you 
now live in the old Brookside home that 
was Brother Solomon’s. I am getting to 
be an old woman, and I want to know my 
granddaughter. Come to me for the 
summer. We live in a fine old house 
near the mountains, and I’m sure you’ll 
have a pleasant time. Write me just 
when to expect you, and let it be soon 
after June First. 

“Affectionately, 

“Your Grandmother.” 

Below was an address: 

“Mrs. Margaret Beach, 

The Willows, 

Glenmore.” 


And, below that, were clear directions for 
20 


MARJORY’S PLAN 


traveling from Brookside to Glenmore by 
train. ^ 

Lissy’s voice, reading the letter, didn’t 
sound a bit like Lissy’s. At the end, she 
clutched Aunt Melissa. 

^^Does she mean — me?” she cried. 

“Of course,” said Aunt Melissa. She 
took the letter to read it slowly for herself. 

“But I needn’t go, need I?” cried Lissy. 
“Oh, Aunt Melissa, do hurry and say I 
needn’t go to this Grandmother’s?” 

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Melissa, still 
reading. “Why, of course, child, no one 
shall make you go. But don’t you want to 
know these new relatives of yours — your 
own mother’s people, dear?” 

Lissy shook her head. Marjory had 
never seen her sunny little face so unhappy. 

“I — just — can’t,” she said. “I’m al- 
ways homesick if I go away alone. You 
21 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

know I am, Aunt Melissa. And ’way off 
there. Besides, I’ve promised Doris to 
help settle the flat. She says, herself, she 
can’t get along without me. Oh, I just 
can’t go!” 

“Well, well, dear,” said Aunt Melissa, 
still studying the letter. “Wait till Peter 
Penny comes home to-night. She was a 
proud, handsome woman — this Grandma 
Beach, Lissy. And she can’t be very old 
— not over sixty-five.” 

“That seems dreadfully old,” said Mar- 
jory. “And, of course, Lissy can’t go ’way 
off there and stay all summer. Don’t think 
about it, Lissy.” 

But all that warm May day, whatever 
Lissy did, over and over she said to herself, 
“I just can’t go.” 

When father came at supper-time, he read 
the letter slowly. Then quite as if she had 
22 


MARJORY’S PLAN 


been little Trixy, he drew Lissy into his 
arms. 

“You couldn’t go, could you, my girl?” 
he asked gravely. There was something in 
his voice and eyes that told Lissy how much 
he wanted her to go. 

“Oh, father,” she cried, “how could I? 
I’ll be homesick, and Doris needs me, and 
Grandma didn’t send you her love — or — 
or anything. She doesn’t sound loving. 
Don’t make me go, father.” 

“No one shall make you go, Lissy,” said 
father. “But listen. Your mother wasn’t 
nineteen when she married me. And I was 
too poor to make her comfortable as she 
had always been. Her people couldn’t for- 
give us. Now, all her life, dear, your 
mother hoped that some day everything 
would be made right. When John came, 
she wrote them. They didn’t answer. 

23 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

When you came, she wrote again, and they 
didn’t answer. But always, she watched 
for a chance to make up with them. One 
of the last things she asked me was that if 
ever that chance came, I would do my part. 
When she died, I wrote them, but there was 
still no answer. This is the first letter in 
all these years, Lissy. It looks like the 
chance your mother wanted.” 

Lissy’s face was very sober. 

“Think it over a little longer,” said 
father. “Then if you really can’t go. I’ll 
write your grandmother and perhaps some 
other plan can be made. We might all go 
to see her in the car. Margie, too — Mar- 
gie is just as much her granddaughter as 
you are.” 

“Oh, am I?” cried Marjory. 

“She never knew about you, dear,” said 
Papa Penny, drawing the other little girl to 
24 


MARJORY’S PLAN 


him. gave you to Mr. Brook, you 
know.” 

Through the best kind of a strawberry 
shortcake supper, Marjory was almost as 
quiet as Lissy. Washing and drying the 
dishes in the old kitchen, neither little girl 
said a word. But once when a great tear 
splashed off Lissy’s nose into the dish-pan, 
Marjory hugged her, wiping towel, plate 
she was wiping, and all. 

When the dishes were done, Marjory 
started for home. Lissy didn’t walk part 
way, as usual. 

“I’ve got to think things out,” she said. 

Marjory had some thinking of her own 
to do. Late as it was when the car left 
Daddy on the porch for his over-Sunday 
visit, Marjory was there waiting for him. 

“Up yet, Margie?” he cried. 

“Come into the library. Daddy,” she said. 

25 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


‘TVe something very important to talk 
over.” 

Daddy sat down in his big chair. Mar- 
jory perched herself on its arm. 

“Out with it, my lady,” said Daddy. 

“Lissy is in awful trouble,” said Marjory, 
soberly. 

“Lissy — in trouble?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

Then Marjory began somewhere in the 
middle of things and told, as well as she 
could, about Lissy’s new grandmother who 
didn’t like Lissy’s father, but wanted Lissy, 
and how Lissy just couldn’t go. After some 
questions. Daddy understood just how seri- 
ous it all was for Lissy. 

“She won’t really have to go, will she?” 
he said. 

“That’s what I thought,” said Marjory. 
“But Papa Penny does so want things 
26 


MARJORY’S PLAN 


all made up. And he’s sure Lissy can 
help make them up, don’t you see, much 
better than he can? So Lissy doesn’t 
know what to do. And that’s where I come 
in.” 

“You, Margie-girl?” 

“Papa Penny says I’m just as much 
Grandma Beach’s granddaughter as Lissy is 
— just exactly. And so. Daddy — why can’t 
I go, instead of Lissy?” 

For a long minute. Daddy didn’t say any- 
thing. 

“Would you really be willing to do that, 
dear?” he asked at last. 

“For Lissy, I would,” said Marjory. 
“And, besides. Daddy, you don’t know how 
lovely it seems to me to think that I have a 
grandma all my own. Grandmas in story- 
books are the dearest things. I’ve always 
wanted one. Don’t you see?” 

27 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOV/S 

Daddy nodded. He was thinking. 
After a minute, he said. 

“So, Margie, if I find that this place 
would be a good one for you to spend the 
summer in with this new grandmother, you 
will really be willing to go with Annette 
and stay there?’’ 

“You won’t be here, anyway. Daddy,” 
cried Marjory. “And that’s one thing 
makes it easier to go away myself. And 
Lissy is going to Doris and John. But, 
Daddy Brook,” she added seriously, taking 
his face between her hands, as she often 
did, “there’s one thing I just can’t do. I 
can’t take Annette along. I’m almost thir- 
teen years old. And I do want to be just 
as much like Lissy as I possibly can. What 
would this Grandma Beach think if I came 
with a maid?” 

“How do you propose to get there?” 

28 


MARJORY’S PLAN 


laughed Daddy; ^‘are you going to travel 
alone?” 

“You can take me part way in the car, 
or some way,” said Marjory. 

“Of course that part can be arranged,” 
said Daddy, “if everything else can. I’ll 
talk it over with Penny.” 

“And you don’t think Grandma Beach 
would mind so very much having me in- 
stead of Lissy?” asked Marjory anxiously. 
“I can’t be as good a granddaughter, maybe, 
but I’ll do my best. I’d just love to be 
somebody’s granddaughter come a-visiting. 
Daddy. It sounds so sort of grown-up and 
important.” 

Marjory had slipped from the chair-arm, 
now, and was walking airily about the room, 
her head very high. 

“I don’t see how she could mind — 
much,” laughed Daddy, “when she’s never 
29 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

seen either of you. But off to bed, now, 
we’ll see about it to-morrow.” 

Next day, the two fathers had a long, long 
talk about Marjory’s plan. 

^‘Marjory has never asked to do a thing 
like this before,” said Marjory’s father. 
“It shows how she is changing — learning to 
think of some one beside herself. Some- 
thing the Pennys and The Penny Bank have 
taught her. I don’t like to say no.” 

“And I don’t like to force Lissy to go,” 
said Lissy’s father. “It’s the first time she 
has ever shown unwillingness to do any- 
thing like this. She is a homesick little 
thing away from us all — always was. 
Now, Marjory’s plan strikes me as a first 
rate one. To begin with, she’s just like her 
mother.^ And I think she’s the kind of 
granddaughter Grandmother Beach ex- 
pects. She can help make up things be- 
30 


MARJORY'S PLAN 


tween us, just as well as Lissy can — maybe 
better. With some help from us, why not 
let the children do this in their own way?” 

The little folks didn’t hear this talk be- 
tween the fathers. What they heard came 
later in the lovely long twilight of that May 
Sunday. 

Marjory, Lissy, and Aunt Melissa were 
on the porch. Bob, Bert, Pet, and Trixy 
were making dandelion chains. When the 
two fathers came out from their long talk 
in The Penny Bank, Marjory flashed a 
quick look at them. Both nodded and 
smiled. 

But before any one else could say any- 
thing, Lissy came toward her father. 

^T’ll go, father,” she said. ^Tt isn’t right 
not to let Grandmother have a granddaugh- 
ter, I suppose, now she wants one. But if 
I’m too homesick, I needn’t stay all summer, 
31 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


need I? Can’t I come home in a month?” 

As Lissy said “month,” it sounded like 
a whole year at the very least. 

“Marjory has something to tell you, 
Lissy,” said Mr. Brook. 

“Oh, Lissy,” cried Marjory, dancing up 
to her, “you aren’t going to Grandma 
Beach’s ! But — I — am !” 

“You?” cried Lissy, staring at Marjory’s 
eager face. “How can you go?” 

“I can — and I am,” said Marjory, danc- 
ing about. “When both fathers say I can, 
I can, and that’s all there is to it. They’re 
going to arrange everything. All Grandma 
Beach wants is a granddaughter. Well, 
I’m that just as exactly as much as you are. 
And she can make up through me just as 
fast as she can through you. I’m just wild 
to be a granddaughter, Lissy Penny. So, 
I’m going — I’m going — I’m going!” 

32 


CHAPTER III 


THE HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

M arjory sat up stiff and 

straight, one hand grasping the 
handle of her little new um- 
brella. She wanted to look just as much 
like a granddaughter going to visit her 
grandmother as possible. The train rum- 
bled along, taking its own time, and stop- 
ping at nearly every station to rest awhile. 

Daddy had brought Marjory a long, long 
way in the car. Then he had left her at a 
bleak little station. Marjory didn’t like to 
think of how long it would be before she 
could see Daddy again, nor of how far away 
he was going. 

Well, she was doing something for Lissy. 
33 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Lissy was so happy to think she needn’t go. 
It would have been harder for Lissy. Lissy 
didn’t want to be a granddaughter. And 
down in Marjory’s little heart was a love 
for going to new places and doing new 
things that Lissy didn’t have. 

Marjory tried to make believe that she 
was really traveling alone. But in the seat 
just back of her was a big man, called Ben 
Baker. Daddy had put her in Ben Baker’s 
charge, telling him to keep both eyes on her 
till she was safe at Grandma Beach’s. He 
was doing just that. For whenever Mar- 
jory turned to look at him, she found his 
keen, kind eyes "smiling straight at her. 
Marjory liked his face. It was jolly and 
young in spite of its wrinkles. 

By and by, he leaned over the seat to 
speak to her. 

“You know Nancy Spindle?” he asked. 

34 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

“Oh, yes,” cried Marjory. “And Joe 
and Betty and the Martie Twins. Do you 
know them, too, — and Fritz?” 

“I rather think so,” said the man. “All 
those young folks call me ‘Uncle Ben.’ 
One of the Marties, if not both, almost be- 
longs to me. They’re all coming to visit 
me at White Birch Camp this summer.” 

“White Birch Camp?” cried Marjory. 
“Why, that’s in the story Nancy Spindle 
tells about Martin’s getting lost and found, 
isn’t it? Is it anywhere near my Grandma 
Beach’s?” 

“Not near, exactly,” said Uncle Ben. 
“There’s a long line of mountains, little 
girl. White Birch Camp is ’way the other 
side of your home at Brookside, and Glen- 
more, where Grandma Beach lives, is ’way 
this side.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Marjory. “I thought 
35 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

how nice it would be to see you all this sum- 
mer.” 

^^Maybe we can manage that,” said Uncle 
Ben. have a great red car that Betty 
calls ^The Crimson Rambler,’ and it can 
go ’most anywhere. I wouldn’t wonder 
now, if before summer’s over, we all called 
upon you.” 

Then Uncle Ben began to tell Marjory 
something about Glenmore. 

^‘It’s just a make-believe village,” he said, 
‘‘like most of these little towns on the edge 
of the mountains. There’s a store and a 
post-office, and a big hotel, called ‘The 
Pines,’ some nice homes, and woods all 
around. Just the place for a little girl like 
you to stay all summer in. You’ll get as 
fat as Martha. The girl-twin, you know 
— she’s a regular roly-poly.” 

Marjory wasn’t sure she wanted to be as 
36 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 


fat as the roly-poly Martha. But she 
nodded politely. She was interested, now, 
in what seemed to be the beginnings of a 
good-sized town. 

“This is Ridgewood,’^ said Uncle Ben. 
“Here’s where we leave the train for the 
stage.” 

All the way from Ridgewood to Glen- 
more, the old stage-wagon rattled along 
a sandy road. Marjory bounced up and 
down on the worn leather seat, and clutched 
the arm to hold herself in. She felt ex- 
cited and grown-up — ^just the way a grand- 
daughter going to visit her grandmother 
ought to feel. 

It was a charming road. It went out of 
the pretty town of Ridgewood with a great 
flourish across a bridge much too big for 
the stream under it. Then it wound along 
between broad, beautiful farms. By and 
37 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

by, the road met the river. The river was 
so glad to see it, no wonder the road had 
hurried every minute to get there. It kept 
close to the river, after that, never for a 
minute losing sight of it. They seemed the 
best of friends — the sandy road and the 
sparkling river. The river was going one 
way, and Marjory in the old stage, the other. 
Uncle Ben said the river was on its way 
from some big pulp mills below Ridgewood 
to some others above it. 

“It has nothing to do here except look 
pretty and have a good time,” he laughed. 
“And it goes right by The Willows where 
your Grandmother lives. I expect you and 
the river will be good friends before sum- 
mer’s over.” 

“You haven’t told me its name,” said 
Marjory. Already she loved the quiet 
little stream sparkling a welcome to 
38 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

her through its fringe of alders and wil- 
lows. 

‘‘The Indians called it Ka-hu-ah-go,’’ 
said Uncle Ben. “We call it plain Black 
River.” 

“Blue River would be prettier, I think,” 
said Marjory. “Do you know Grandma 
Beach, Uncle Ben?” she added. 

“When you know me as well as my bunch 
does,” said Uncle Ben, “you’ll know I know 
almost every one in all this country. I’ve 
known your Grandma Beach since I was a 
little boy.” 

“Do you think I’ll make a good grand- 
daughter?” asked Marjory, anxiously. 
“I’ve never tried being one, you know.” 

“You’d suit me all right,” said Uncle Ben, 
his eyes twinkling. 

“I do hope I’ll do as well as Lissy,” said 
Marjory. 


39 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

She didn’t have much time to think about 
that then. Just here, the road turned 
sharply, went up a little rise, and across 
the river on a long high bridge. The sun 
was just setting. The river was bright with 
sunset color. The road swept with a great 
curve down from the bridge. 

But the stage didn’t follow it. It turned 
into a broad green yard shaded by tall trees. 
Back among the trees was a large white 
house with green blinds. Its western win- 
dows blazed in the sun. The door on one of 
the porches was open. Some one stood at 
the top of the steps. As the stage stopped, 
she hurried down toward it. She was a 
strong, pleasant-faced woman with smiling 
brown eyes. 

^‘Is this Miss Margaret?” she said. 

‘‘It’s the little lady, herself,” said Uncle 
Ben, lifting Marjory down. “Her father 
40 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

wanted me to leave her right at this very 
door.” 

^We’re all expecting her,” said the 
woman. She took Marjory’s umbrella and 
bag in one hand, and Marjory’s hand in the 
other. 

“Are you Grandma Beach?” asked Mar- 
jory eagerly. 

“Oh, no, indeed. Miss Margaret,” said 
the woman. “I’m the housekeeper, Celia 
Dense. This is your grandmother.” 

Marjory, looking up, saw a tall woman 
waiting at the top of the steps. She had 
smooth dark hair and dark eyes. Her 
voice was brisk and businesslike — not a bit 
like the story-book’s Grandmother’s. 

“Welcome, Margaret,” she said. She 
kissed Marjory’s cheek. Then she held her 
off a little to look at her. 

“How very small you are,” she said. 

41 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Marjory tried to say her name was Mar- 
jory, not Margaret. But somehow she 
didn’t say anything. For there, waiting 
to speak to her, was another tall, dark 
lady. She carried a little trumpet in one 
hand, which, as she spoke, she put to her 
ear. 

“Welcome, grand-niece Margaret,” she 
said. 

Then, just as Marjory was feeling very 
little and strange indeed, between these tall, 
stately, new relatives, out of the door came 
a tiny woman. Her hair was soft and 
silvery and full of waves. Her eyes were 
dark and bright, and how they danced at 
sight of Marjory. 

“Little great-granddaughter Margaret,” 
she cried. She put both arms about Mar- 
jory and gave her a hug just like a story- 
book grandmother, with a kiss to match. 

42 



“ ‘ WHY, now MANY ARE THERE? ’ CRIED MARJORY, HOLD- 
ING FAST TO THE BIT OF A HAND.” 



HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 


And she wouldn’t let go of her. She held 
her close and gave her a quick little squeeze 
now and then. 

“Why, how many are there?” cried Mar- 
jory, holding fast to the bit of a hand. 
“Daddy didn’t say there were so many 
grandmothers.” 

“I am your Grandmother Beach, Mar- 
garet,” said the first tall old lady, briskly. 
“This is my sister Eunice.” She bowed 
slightly toward the other tall old lady with 
the ear-trumpet. “She was your mother’s, 
aunt, so she is your great-aunt. She’s very 
deaf — speak into her ear-trumpet if you 
want her to hear you.” 

There didn’t seem to be anything to say 
into the ear-trumpet just then. And 
Grandma Beach went on, turning to the 
little old lady: 

“This is my mother — your mother’s 
43 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

grandmother — and your own great-grand- 
mother.’’ 

“Oh, oh,” cried Marjory, her eyes big 
and shining. “A whole grandmother and a 
whole great-aunt and a whole great-grand- 
mother all my very own. A whole house- 
ful of grandmothers. Isn’t it wonderful. 
Uncle Ben?” 

She turned to Uncle Ben who was wait- 
ing to say good-by. 

“Guess you’ll be well looked after,” he 
said. “Good-by, my dear. Have a pleas- 
ant summer.” 

“You were very kind to bring me. Uncle 
Ben,” said Marjory. She held out her 
hand. “Do come to see us — all of you.” 

“We shall be pleased to see you any time, 
Ben,” said Grandma Beach in her stately 
way. Aunt Eunice nodded. And little 
great-grandmother nodded, too, in the most 
44 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

delightful fashion like some lovely little 
doll. 

The old stage rumbled away, with Uncle 
Ben waving his hand and smiling at Mar- 
jory in the midst of her grandmothers. 

It disappeared around a bend, just as 
Celia Dense bustled out of the door. 

“Supper’s all ready,” she said. 

As she took off Marjory’s hat and coat 
in the living-room, she said, “Call me 
^Celia,’ Miss Margaret. Your mother and 
I were girls together.” 

The dining-room was quaint and low, 
with one door opening on the porch and the 
other into the living-room. It had a big 
fireplace opposite the porch-door. All the 
furniture was quaint and old. So was the 
silver and china and linen of the pretty, 
round supper-table. 

The meal wasn’t like any Marjory 
45 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

had known before. There were delicious 
things to eat. Celia served them. But it 
wasn’t all laughter and chatter like the sup- 
pers in The Penny Bank. And it wasn’t 
like dinners with Daddy either, just they 
two alone, when she poured his coffee and 
put in the lumps of sugar. 

For half a minute, maybe, a lump that 
wasn’t sugary, got in Marjory’s throat in 
the way of the biscuits and wild strawber- 
ries and cream. She swallowed hard. 
She wasn’t going to be homesick. 

“Did you have a pleasant journey, Mar- 
garet?” asked Grandma Beach. 

“My name isn’t Margaret, please,” said 
Marjory. 

Grandma Beach didn’t seem to hear, so 
Marjory said it again a little louder. 

“We know you were given an outlandish 
name,” Grandma Beach said then. “It 
46 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 

came from the Penny side of the house. 
We shall call you Margaret. My mother’s 
name is Margaret. Mine is Margaret. 
Your mother’s name was Margaret. Yours 
should have been. Did you have a pleasant 
journey, Margaret?” 

^‘But I’m not Melissa,” said honest little 
Marjory. She wanted everything straight 
at once. 

^^Of course not,” said Grandma, who 
heard only a word or two. ‘Wou prefer 
your rightful name, as any of the Beaches 
would. You are all Beach — not a bit of 
Penny in you, I’m glad to see. Did you 
have a pleasant journey, Margaret?” 

Marjory gave Celia an appealing glance. 
She passed her some little round cakes that 
looked ready to melt in your mouth. 

^‘Never mind,” she said softly. 
“Grandma Beach doesn’t always hear very 
47 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

well — let her have things her own way.” 

^^Yes, Grandma Beach,” said Marjory in 
answer to Grandma’s question. She didn’t 
say any more. She saw quickly that at this 
table she wasn’t expected to talk unless she 
was asked something. She munched the 
little cake, with its icing of maple-sugar, 
and tried to remember what she had written 
Grandma Beach about coming. 

you are willing,” she had said, 
am coming to spend the summer with 
you. I hope you will like me. I will 
try to be a good granddaughter. 

“With love, 

“Marjory.” 

Then she had liked the looks of that word 
“Granddaughter” so much, that she erased 
“Marjory” and signed the new name to the 
letter, instead. Daddy and Aunt Melissa 
and Papa Penny had all read her letter. 
And Papa Penny had written, too. Hadn’t 
48 


HOUSE OF THE GRANDMOTHERS 


he said she was Marjory, not Melissa? 

In the midst of Marjory’s puzzle, little 
great-grandmother reached over to pat her 
hand. 

“You shall call me Granny, dearie,” she 
said, “just as your mother used to. We’ll 
be great cronies, we will !” 

“Don’t begin spoiling her. Mother,” said 
Grandma Beach. 

Granny only chuckled and twinkled her 
eyes at Marjory. 

Soon after supper, Marjory went to bed. 
She had the dearest room that had been her 
mother’s. It was over a porch on the river- 
side of the house. It looked through the 
great branches of a great willow to the river 
and the sky beyond. Her bed was a four- 
poster with a patch-work quilt and a won- 
derful old woven blanket of blue and white. 

Marjory went to sleep with Granny’s 
49 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

kiss on her face and the song of the river in 
her ears. The last things she thought was 
— ^‘Three grandmothers — for Aunt Eunice 
is really just like one — I’m going to call this 
^The House of The Grandmothers.’ ” 


50 


CHAPTER IV 


ROGER 


^ ^HE first letter that went from The 
House of The Grandmothers to 



The Penny Bank was fat and im- 


portant looking. 

^T’m writing this right out in the old 
willow,” it said. ‘‘It stands on the bank 
of the river. Wesley says — Wesley is 
Celia’s husband and looks after Grandma 
Beach’s place — that five brothers once, 
long ago, each planted a little willow all 
in the same hole. They’ve grown into the 
most wonderful tree with five great 
trunks. Right in the center where the 
trunks start is this place where I’m sit- 
ting. It’s big enough to hold you and 
me and all the little Pennys at once. 
Mother used to sit here, too, Celia says. 
Granny has made the prettiest little red 
cushions for me to sit on. I have to do 
most of my playing out of doors, Lissy, 


51 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


’cause Grandma Beach doesn’t like noise 
in the house and not any clutter. 
Grandma Beach is different from Aunt 
Melissa. She thinks children should be 
seen, not heard, and things like that. But 
she’s very kind, and Celia says it’s just 
her way. And she’s so tall and handsome 
— I’m proud to be her granddaughter. 
Aunt Eunice isn’t very strong. She al- 
ways does just what Grandma Beach 
says. She makes lovely things out of 
beads — purses and bags and things. 

‘T can always play in Granny’s room. 
She’s the oldest of the grandmothers, you 
know. Her room is the attic. It is just 
full of wonderful old things, furniture 
and chests and clothes. I can’t begin to 
tell you about them. I love it up there 
and I love Granny. 

^‘She won’t always do things that 
Grandma Beach wants her to. She just 
laughs and says, ‘I’m your mother, re- 
member, Margaret.’ And she always 
gets her own way. She’s very old, and 
sometimes she doesn’t remember things 
very well. But it doesn’t matter, and we 
do have the loveliest times. 

“Celia is so good to me. When she 
was a little girl, she lived in a little bit of 
a house and was very poor. Our mother 
52 


ROGER 


used to run away every chance she could 
get to play with her. Celia’s lived with 
the Grandmas since she was married 
twenty years ago. 

“I forgot to say the grandmas are all 
deaf, only they’re not deaf just alike 
somehow. Aunt Eunice can’t hear any- 
thing unless you talk into her ear-trum- 
pet. Grandma Beach says she is just a 
little hard of hearing. Celia says that 
means she hears just a part of what you 
say and guesses at the rest. But if she 
guesses wrong, you mustn’t tell her so. 
’Cause Grandma Beach doesn’t like to be 
corrected about anything, Lissy. Granny 
can’t hear sometimes — but when you 
think she isn’t going to, she hears. And 
most always she hears me. 

^^They all call me Margaret. They 
say that should have been my name. 
I’ve given up trying to tell them I’m not 
you, Lissy. I don’t know whether they 
know or not. I’ve told Celia, of course. 
And she says, ^Never mind — leave well 
enough alone.’ She says all the grand- 
mothers wanted was a granddaughter, 
anyway, and they’ve got one that just 
suits them. Grandma Beach doesn’t like 
to hear much about the Pennys, Lissy. 
I’m so sorry, but I can’t help it.” 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

It was a long letter, and it sounded as if 
it told everything there was to tell. But 
there were things that didn’t get in. There 
wasn’t a word about how dreadfully dull 
and stupid the old house was sometimes. 
Nor about the long, quiet meals. Nor 
about the early going-to-bed and the early 
getting up. Nor about how Marjory must 
ask always if she could do this or do that. 
Nor about trying to piece a bed-quilt for all 
the world like a little girl of a hundred years 
ago. It wasn’t always just easy to be a 
granddaughter in this House of the Grand- 
mothers. 

But Marjory folded the letter and slipped 
it into its envelope. If she wrote Lissy 
any of these things, Lissy would think she 
was unhappy and would be unhappy, too. 
Besides, Marjory wasn’t exactly unhappy. 
It was all so new and strange. And there 
54 


ROGER 


were Celia and Granny. And there was 
the old willow with its delightfub little nest. 
And the river talking to itself. And Daddy 
expecting her to stay. Marjory addressed 
the letter very carefully, and gave it to Wes- 
ley to mail. 

That night, at the supper-table. Grandma 
Beach said, 

^‘Your birthday comes next week, doesn’t 
it, Margaret?” 

^‘Yes, Grandma,” said Marjory. ‘^Mine 
comes on Friday and Lissy’s on Saturday. 
Isn’t that nice?” 

Grandma Beach didn’t seem to hear. 

“You are so very small of your age, Mar- 
garet,” she said. 

Marjory didn’t like to be so small, any 
more than Grandma Beach liked to have 
her. But she couldn’t do anything about it. 

“You’re like Granny, dearie,” said 
55 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Granny in her unexpected way. “It’s 
nice to be little. Little people always get 
their own way about things.” Her old 
eyes twinkled merrily. “On your birthday, 
dearie, you shall have the pearl-box,” she 
added. 

Grandma Beach tried to look severe, but 
not even Grandma Beach could look severe 
at Granny. 

The week went slowly by. Marjory 
spent long hours in the old willow with her 
books, or in Granny’s room listening to her 
stories. Sometimes she and Celia went for 
a walk. Once, Grandma Beach dressed 
her in her prettiest gown and took her for 
a stately call on some friends. They all ex- 
claimed at her and said, 

“Isn’t she her mother over again?” 

And Grandma Beach smiled and looked 
so pleased that Marjory was very happy. 

56 


ROGER 


Although Grandma Beach was so strict and 
dignified, Marjory was growing very fond 
of her. 

Wesley let her help feed the horses. 
One day, he took her for a long row in a 
flat-bottomed old boat called The Water 
Lily. 

Friday morning Marjory opened her 
eyes with a delightful feeling that some- 
thing lovely was going to happen. Sure 
enough, it was her birthday. Birthdays 
had always been great days in Marjory’s 
life. She put on a pretty white linen gown, 
with a patent leather belt and patent leather 
shoes to match. As best she could, she tied 
up her hair with the rose-colored bow 
Granny liked best. Then she danced down 
stairs into the sunny dining-room. The 
Grandmas were all there standing back of 
their chairs, waiting for her. 

57 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘‘Good morning, Grandmothers,” she 
said. 

“Good morning, Margaret,” said 
Grandma Beach and Aunt Eunice as usual. 
And “Good morning, dearie,” said Granny, 
in her gentle voice. 

But there was no birthday greeting, and 
no heap of little ribbon-tied packages at 
her plate, such as had always greeted Mar- 
jory’s eyes on a birthday morning. She 
took her place soberly. Maybe, the 
Grandmas had some other way of keeping 
birthdays. 

All through that long breakfast. Grandma 
Beach read into Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet, 
news from the paper. Marjory didn’t 
know what it was all about. She cared 
less. After breakfast, she waited in the 
kitchen for a few minutes, hoping Celia 
would say something about her birthday, 
58 


ROGER 


but she didn’t. Celia was canning straw- 
berries, and was very busy. 

Marjory slipped away to the old willow. 
She sat down on one of Granny’s scarlet 
cushions and stared at the river. What if 
it was one of the fairest of June mornings? 
What if the river did sparkle and beckon 
and sing? It was Marjory Brook’s birth- 
day, and everybody had forgotten it. 
Daddy was very, very far away. This was 
the first time she had ever been away from 
him on a birthday morning. 

All at once, Marjory felt just a little like 
a Marjory Brook she had once known very 
well indeed. A Marjory Brook who al- 
ways had whatever she wanted the minute 
she wanted it. If she didn’t she screamed 
and cried till some one, somehow, got it for 
her. But she couldn’t scream and cry in 
The House of the Grandmothers. What 
59 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

would Grandma Beach say? And 
Granny? 

“I mustn’t — oh, I mustn’t,” she said. 
She sprang to her feet. As fast as she 
could, she ran across the yard. She wanted 
to run away from that thought. She hur- 
ried along the one straggling little street of 
Glenmore. She passed the store, the post- 
office, the little white church. Just beyond 
the church, in its great grove of pines, stood 
The Pines. Marjory didn’t care for hotels. 
She crossed the road. Opposite the church, 
a little path not quite grown up enough to 
call a road, wandered away into the woods. 
Along its cool quiet way, Marjory took her 
hurt, angry, disappointed little self. 

The path ran away among tall pines and 
balsams. Marjory ran with it till she was 
quite tired out. Then she sank down to 
rest on a mossy log in a lovely little hollow. 

60 



“ she swayed and whirled and poised airily on the 

PINE-NEEDLES.” 




ROGER 


It was sweet and fresh, with dew-drops still 
shining on the pine-needles. The angry lit- 
tle flush went out of Marjory’s cheeks. 

Hovering over some forest flowers, Mar- 
jory saw a great swarm of blue butterflies. 
They were more beautiful than flowers, 
themselves. They seemed to have caught 
the color of the sky and brushed it over with 
sunbeam gold. They rose and settled and 
rose again and settled again. Marjory 
forgot everything else. She forgot that she 
was a little girl even. All at once, she be- 
came a blue butterfly, herself, with bur- 
nished wings. On the tips of her toes, with 
her arms waving, she swayed and whirled 
and poised airily on the pine-needles. 

Ever since she could remember, Mar- 
jory had loved to dance. But two years 
before this, she had been carried off by a 
Gypsy troupe and made to dance for them. 

61 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Since then, she had never cared to try. It 
made her unhappy even to think of those 
dreadful days. But dancing out here on 
the fragrant pine-needles, with all the 
sweet things of June about her, was differ- 
ent from dancing in hot stuffy tents and 
halls. She curved and pirouetted. She 
spread her wings and flitted across the 
sunny space between the pines. Then she 
balanced daintily on one foot, and hung 
poised over a clump of ferns. 

^‘What are you doing?” 

The voice was surprised and impatient. 
With a start Marjory stopped being a but- 
terfly and came back to being a little girl. 
She peered this way and that eagerly. In 
the darkest part of the pine thicket, quite 
away from the sunshine, lying flat on his 
stomach and blinking at her, she saw a boy. 

‘What are you doing?” he asked again. 

62 


ROGER 


If the voice was cross, it was young. 
And it was some time since Marjory had 
heard any young voice except her own. 

^Why, I’m dancing,” she said. 

“Of course,” said the boy, still crossly. 
“But what for?” 

“I saw the butterflies,” said Marjory, 
“and I felt just like it.” She didn’t know, 
herself, quite why she had danced. 

She went nearer the boy and sat down 
on a stone. He was still scowling. If only 
he would stop, Marjory thought he would 
have the nicest face. His eyes were strange 
and dark and made her think, somehow, of 
violets. His dark hair wanted to curl, but 
it was pushed ’way back on his forehead and 
plastered down so it couldn’t. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” said the boy; “what I do 
most of the time.” 


63 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


“Why don’t you do something?” suggested 
Marjory, as pleasantly as she could. She 
felt curious. She didn’t know much about 
boys of her own age. The Pennys were 
little boys. And Joe was almost grown 
up. 

“There’s nothing a fellow can do,” said 
the boy. He kicked at the pine-needles. 
Then he rolled over and hid his face in the 
moss. 

Marjory looked at his back. It was a 
strong, sturdy looking back. 

“Maybe,” she said timidly, “you’re like 
I used to be — cross because you can’t have 
something you want.” 

The boy rolled over, sat up, and stared 
at her with those strange violet eyes. 

“Maybe I am,” he said, “what of it?” 

“It’s much nicer not to be — really,” said 
Marjory. “I never am now — that is, not 
64 


ROGER 


often. This morning, I felt it coming on. 
That’s why I came here.” 

The boy didn’t answer, so Marjory went 
on. 

‘^You see, it’s my birthday.” She must 
tell some one. ‘^And Daddy’s gone, and 
I’m ’way off here alone, and nobody’s re- 
membered about it.” 

“Gee,” cried the boy. “What’s a birth- 
day? To-morrow’s mine, too. But there’s 
nobody to remember it, except Sally. And 
she’s too busy to remember anything.” 

“How old are you?” cried Marjory. 

“Thirteen,” said the boy. 

“To-morrow?” 

“Yep.” 

“Why, I’m thirteen to-day,” said Mar- 
jory, breathless with the discovery. “But 
I don’t look a whole day older than you, do 
I? And Lissy is fifteen to-morrow. Isn’t 
65 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

that funny? I wish Lissy was here.” 

“I don’t,” snapped the boy; “I don’t like 
girls.” 

“Not — Sally?” gasped Marjory. 

“Sally’s grown up,” said the boy. “She’s 
Dick’s wife.” 

“Who’s Dick?” 

“Sort of a cousin,” said the boy. “And 
my guardian. He’s the only relative I’ve 
got anywhere. But I don’t care. I don’t 
like relatives.” 

“Why, I just love relatives,” said Mar- 
jory. “The more I find, the better I like it. 
I’m visiting som.e of them now. Where 
do you live?” 

“Hotels,” said the boy, briefly. 

“I’ve never lived in a hotel,” said Mar- 
jory. “Is it fun?” 

“Beastly,” said the boy. “You can’t do 
anything you want to. I can’t even play 
66 


ROGER 


my victrola, ’cause some of the summer 
folks don’t like it.” 

“That is too bad,” said Marjory. “Is 
that what made you cross?” 

“Gee,” said the boy, springing to his feet. 
“As if that was anything — much!” 

He stooped to pick up a book that had 
been lying beside him. It was such a fasci- 
nating looking book. The corners of its 
square red covers were worn a little as if 
it had been used a long time. There was a 
swish of leaves, and a stubby pencil fell out 
of it. 

“Oh, let me see,” cried Marjory. “It’s 
a drawing-book, isn’t it? Did you make 
the pictures yourself? Do let me see it.” 

The boy stuffed the book into his pocket 
as far as it would go. “They’re no good,” 
he said. 

Marjory wouldn’t have given up that in- 
67 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

teresting-looking book with its quick 
glimpse of pencil-sketches inside, but just 
at that moment, faint and far-off across the 
stillness, there sounded a whistle. 

“Is that noon?’’ cried Marjory. “Oh 
dear, what will Grandma say? I must 
hurry now. But you’ll show it to me, some- 
time, won’t you? Won’t you please tell 
me your name. Mine is Marjory Brook.” 

“Roger Kent,” said the boy. 


68 


CHAPTER V 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 

M arjory left Roger at the lit- 
tle white church on his way 
to The Pines. Halfway down 
the long street, she saw Celia coming, bare- 
headed, to meet her. 

^‘And what do you suppose makes such 
a nice boy so cross?” she panted, after she 
had poured out the story of finding Roger 
in the Pine Grove. 

“Dinner is ready,” said Celia, gravely. 
“And the Grandmothers don’t like to be 
kept waiting, you know. Miss Margaret.” 

Sure enough, when, a few minutes later, 
Marjory went into the cool dark dining- 
room, there, stiff and straight, in their three 
69 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


chairs sat the three old ladies waiting for 
her. 

“You are very late, Margaret,” said 
Grandma Beach severely. “Where have 
you been?” 

“Just for a little walk. Grandma,” said 
Marjory. “I didn’t mean to be gone so 
long, truly.” 

“Haven’t I told you to ask before you 
leave the yard?” asked Grandma. 

“Yes, Grandma,” said Marjory. 

There wasn’t much use telling Grandma 
Beach, she thought, that she really hadn’t 
meant to go out of the yard. Grandma 
Beach wouldn’t understand. Aunt Eunice 
wouldn’t hear. Marjory looked appeal- 
ingly toward Granny. But Granny seemed 
lost in her own pleasant thoughts. 

“To help you remember another time,” 
said Grandma Beach, “I must punish you, 
70 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


Margaret. You may stay in the house all 
the afternoon.” 

Never in all her life, so far as she could 
remember, had Marjory been punished. 
And on her birthday. It was dreadful. 
She hung her head and her cheeks were 
scarlet. What would Lissy say? And 
Daddy? 

‘‘Margaret will spend the afternoon with 
me,” said Granny suddenly. “Will you 
like that, dearie?” 

Marjory didn’t know whether Granny 
had heard Grandma Beach or not. She 
wanted to nod her head, but if she did she 
knew a great tear would hop out of one 
eye — maybe out of both. 

“Very well,” said Grandma Beach. 

Granny’s attic room was long and low, 
extending over the whole house. There 
was a great gable window in each end. 
71 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

The rafters had been stained a deep rich 
brown. Priceless old rugs of soft colors 
lay on the floor. All the furniture was old. 
Granny showed Marjory many treasures. 
Among them was a sampler. The name set 
into it in patient little stitches was “Mar- 
garet.” It belonged to a Margaret farther 
back even than Granny’s childhood. 

Marjory loved the little old sampler. 
So Granny found her the frock that the lit- 
tle long-ago Margaret had worn. It was of 
fragile sprigged muslin, lavender and white. 
It had a low neck and puffs for sleeves. A 
string of purple beads went with it. 

Marjory slipped into the gown, and 
Granny fastened the beads around her neck. 

“Shall I dance for you?” she cried to the 
delighted old lady. 

Granny kept time to the steps while Mar- 
jory pirouetted up and down the long room. 
72 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


Suddenly, as she was trying to ripple like 
the sunbeam on the floor, Granny caught 
her two hands. 

^^Granny’ll show you how to dance,” she 
cried. 

It was a quaint, old-time, formal thing 
that Granny and Marjory danced, just fitted 
to the old room and its furniture, and Mar- 
jory’s sprigged muslin frock. Marjory 
caught its slow step and dignified courtesy 
so well that Granny stopped to clap her tiny 
wrinkled hands. 

Out of breath, she sank down in her little 
rocker. Marjory sat down on a little stool 
at Granny’s feet. And Granny told her 
stories of long-ago days when she had 
danced that very same dance. 

“Margaret and Eunice never could dance 
well,” she said. “It takes a little person 
like you or me. Always laugh and dance 
73 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

and sing, Margie, just as Granny has.” 

It was a wonderful afternoon. When 
Granny and Marjory went down to supper, 
it was hard to tell which face was happier. 
Nothing more was said about punishments. 
Neither was anything said about birthdays. 
There hadn’t been even a card from Daddy 
or Lissy. 

Marjory fell asleep that night trying to 
decide if ever any one else had had so 
strange a birthday. It didn’t seem quite 
funny, yet, but she was almost sure it would 
when she wrote it to Lissy. 

Next morning, an oriole in the elm out- 
side her window woke her with his golden 

call. In the very middle of it, Marjory was 

\ 

at the window. But swift as she was, the 
bird was only a golden flash through the top- 
most branches of the tree. 

Marjory slipped into a little old gingham. 
74 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 

It was almost worn out, but it was yellow to 
match the oriole and the sunbeams and all 
the glad June morning. 

Upstairs to the attic, she flew. 

Granny stood at the door. 

^‘Happy birthday, little grand-girl,” she 
said. 

“This isn’t,” began Marjory. Then she 
remembered how often Granny made mis- 
takes about days and such things. So she 
only laughed and dropped a courtesy. 

“Thank you. Granny,” she said. 

Downstairs, they went, and into the din- 
ing-room. It was ablaze with morning sun- 
shine. There were roses on the table, and 
at Marjory’s plate a pile of little, white, 
ribbon-tied packages. 

“Many happy returns, little Granddaugh- 
ter,” said Grandma Beach, with one of her 
rare smiles. 


75 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘^Happy birthday, Margaret,” said Aunt 
Eunice. 

‘‘This isn’t my birthday,” said Marjory, 
half bewildered. “It’s Lissy’s.” 

“Delicious,” said Grandma, catching the 
sound of Marjory’s last word. “The 
weather is June-like, Margaret. Here are 
your little gifts. But wait till breakfast is 
over before you open them. That’s the way 
your mother always did.” 

Marjory decided to leave explaining 
about the birthday till after breakfast, too. 
She slipped into her place and forgot every- 
thing but that fascinating pile of gifts. She 
hurried through her dish of oat-meal and 
crunched her roll. Then she wondered if 
mother, too, had hurried through birthday 
breakfast only to find she must wait till Aunt 
Eunice had heard the news, and every one 
had finished eating. 


76 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


^‘Now, you may open them, Margaret,” 
said Grandma, when Aunt Eunice had 
sipped her last cup of coffee. “Some of 
them came yesterday, but I kept them all for 
your birthday.” 

“Yesterday was really my birthday, you 
know,” began Marjory. She took up one 
of the smallest packages, and started to 
open it. 

“We know your birthday and your age, 
child,” said Grandma Beach. “WeVe 
spoken about it each year.” 

“I made that for you, Margaret,” said 
Aunt Eunice, beaming at Marjory as she 
brought out of its wrappings a small purse, 
blue, with pink roses in it, all made of tiny 
beads. 

“How lovely!” cried Marjory into Aunt 
Eunice’s ear-trumpet. “Couldn’t I make 
one of these, sometime, instead of a bed- 
77 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

quilt? I’d love to do one all myself for 
Lissy.” 

Aunt Eunice nodded. 

^‘How' often you use that word deli- 
cious,’ ” said Grandma Beach. “I should 
never think of calling Eunice’s work ‘de- 
licious.’ It is fine and beautiful.” 

But by this time, in the package from 
Grandma Beach, Marjory had found a little 
book with a hand-painted cover for a diary. 
To it was tied a small gold pencil. 

“I’ll write stories in it,” cried Marjory. 
“Oh, I love it. Grandma.” 

There was a story-book from John and 
Doris, a handkerchief from Lissy, and cards 
from the other Pennys, big and little. 
There was a foreign card from Daddy. 
And there was a package from him, too, that 
had been mailed from one of the New York 
shops. Inside the box was a lovely little 
78 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


gown, of the soft sunbeam color Marjory 
so loved. 

Grandma Beach examined the little gown 
carefully. 

^‘Your father must have money now,” she 
said. “Your clothes are all of the best. 
And this gown is beautifully made.” 

“Daddy has lots of money,” cried Mar- 
jory. She danced about, her gifts in her 
arms, too excited to remember that in The 
House of the Grandmothers children were 
supposed to be seen, not heard. 

“I never called my father ‘Daddy,’ ” said 
Grandma. 

“I couldn’t find the little pearl-box this 
morning, dearie,” said Granny. “But just 
as soon as I do, you shall have it.” 

“My gift will come later, too,” smiled 
Celia, as she came in to clear away the 
breakfast things. . 


79 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


“But you know, Celia,” began Marjory, 
“this isn’t — ” she hesitated, stopped short. 
Maybe it wasn’t quite polite to speak about 
the mistake in the birthdays. 

“I suppose it doesn’t seem like others 
you’ve had,” said Celia to Marjory’s unfin- 
ished sentence. “But I think you’ll like it. 
Miss Margaret.” 

In the morning’s mail, there was a long 
letter from Daddy. It didn’t sound as if 
Daddy liked being so far away from her 
any more than she liked being away from 
him. 

“But three Grandma-ladies and one 
Celia ought to be able to look after my 
Marjory-girl,” he wrote. “From what 
you say, I think Celia can manage it all 
alone. When you don’t know quite what 
to do, ask her. Never mind, if the 
Grandmas do confuse you with Lissy. It 
can’t make much difference. When I 
come home. I’ll bring Lissy and let them 
see that they’ve two Granddaughters.” 

80 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 

There was a letter from Lissy, too. It 
told about everything in The Penny Bank, 
and said that in just a few days, now, she 
was going to Doris and John in New York. 
Then it said, ‘Tapa Penny says to do what- 
ever Celia says about the Grandmas. She 
knows them better than any one else does.” 

At dinner. Grandma Beach said, 

“Margaret, you are to have a little birth- 
day supper out under the old willow. A 
birthday supper all by yourself doesn’t seem 
just right. So, I’ve asked a friend of ours 
at The Pines to send over two or three chil- 
dren from there.” 

Grandma Beach looked so pleased. 
Marjory tried to look so, too. But a birth- 
day party made up of children she’d never 
seen before did seem strange. 

Out in the kitchen, she said to Celia, 

“Couldn’t I have Roger? He lives at 
81 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

The Pines, and I’m some acquainted with 
him, and I like him if he is cross. Besides, 
his birthday is to-day.” 

^‘Miss Margaret,” said Celia, beating 
eggs to a delightfully white froth, “when 
you’ve lived with the Grandmas as long as I 
have, you’ll find it’s best to let them make 
their own plans. You’ll have a much better 
party if you do just as they say.” 

So Marjory gave up Roger. She went 
slowly upstairs to write a letter to Lissy. 
But at the top of the first flight, she heard 
Granny calling to her. 

“Come, help me hunt for the pearl-box,” 
she said. “Maybe you can find it.” 

“But I couldn’t find it anywhere, Celia,” 
Marjory told Celia later, while Celia 
helped her get ready for her party. 
“Where do you suppose Granny has put 
it?” 


82 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


“Why, Miss Margaret,” said Celia. 
“Granny gave that little box of jewels to 
your mother when she was married. She’s 
forgotten all about it now.” 

“Poor Granny,” said Marjory softly, as 
she slipped into the little new gown. 

Just before six, when the sunbeams lay 
long and bright across the lawn, Marjory 
danced down to the old willow. There was 
the table, with a white cloth on it. In the 
center was a great bowl of yellow roses and 
honeysuckle. It wasn’t set, because Celia 
didn’t know how many guests there would 
be. 

Marjory could scarcely wait to see those 
guests. She could scarcely wait to write 
Lissy how funny her birthday was — a day 
late, with a tea-party of strangers. 

By and by, dragging himself along the 
road from The Pines, and coming still more 
83 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

unwillingly along the tree-shaded drive of 
The Willows, Marjory saw one solitary boy. 
It was Roger. He was so stiff and starched 
in his best clothes, she didn’t know him at 
first. When she did, she rushed to meet 
him. 

“Oh, Roger,” she cried, “now you’ve 
come, I’m going to ask Grandma to let you 
stay for my party.” 

“I’m asked to it,” said Roger. “That’s 
why I came. I didn’t want to,” he added, 
slowly. 

“Didn’t — want — to come — to my party?” 
said Marjory. 

“Of course I didn’t know ’twas yours,” 
said Roger. “How could I?” 

“But where are the rest of them?” asked 
Marjory. 

“The rest of what?” said Roger, sitting 
down on a red cushion. 

84 


A LEFT-OVER BIRTHDAY 


“My party,” said Marjory. “Grandma 
said she’d asked two or three.” 

“Aren’t relatives queer things?” said 
Roger. “Your Grandma telephoned Sally 
to send over several children to a party at 
six. Sally didn’t know it, but when she 
came to look, every child had gone on a pic- 
nic. But me. So she made me come. 
Gee — but I’m glad it was you.” 

Just then Celia came out to lay the table. 
She laughed when she saw the one guest. 
But when she found that he was the very 
one and the only one Marjory wanted, she 
said everything w^as all right. 

“Granny’s coming to your party, she 
says,” she told Marjory. 

“You’ll love my Granny,” cried Marjory 
to Roger. “Here she comes, now.” 

Roger’s scowl didn’t look as if he was 
going to love any one. But when Granny 
85 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


held out her hand and smiled, his own scowl 
got lost somewhere in the pleasantest smile, 
which made him look like a different boy. 

“It was a lovely party after all,” wrote 
Marjory in a long letter to Lissy, next 
day. “Just Granny and Roger and me 
at the table, with Grandma Beach, Aunt 
Eunice, and Celia all helping us to 
things. There were the best things to 
eat, but I can’t take time to tell you about 
them now, — except the birthday cake. 
That was Celia’s present to me. It was 
frosted in white and it had yellow can- 
dles. And, Lissy, there were fifteen, in- 
stead of thirteen. So you see, the Grand- 
mas do think that I’m you.” 

There was a postscript. 

“Granny can’t find the pearl box. 
Celia says of course she can’t, because she 
gave it to our mother when she was mar- 
ried. There were two keys. Mother 
must have had one, Celia says. Granny’s 
given me the other to wear round my neck 
on a little silk cord. Doesn’t that sound 
just like a story-book?” 


86 


CHAPTER VI 


THE PONY CART 

C ELIA came out on the porch, 
closing the screen-door carefully, 
so as not to disturb the Grandmas, 
all taking their afternoon naps. Nap time 
in The House of the Grandmothers was the 
dullest time of day for Marjory. She sat, 
now, in the hammock with a story-book. 

‘‘You are to spend the afternoon with 
Master Roger at The Pines,” said Celia. 

“Oh, Celia,” cried Marjory, springing 
up. “Am I, really? How did you ever 
do it?” 

“I didn’t do it all,” said Celia. “Mrs. 
Sally Carr telephoned that she was going 
away for the afternoon, and would you come 
87 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


and stay with Roger. Your Grandma 
didn’t approve at first, but I said young 
company would be good for you. And 
Granny sided with me. You’re to go at 
three and you must be back at five. Don’t 
forget, or you’ll never be allowed to go 
again.” 

Marjory found Roger all by himself in 
one shady corner of the great porch. A 
number of gay little folks were at play 
around one of the big swings in the yard, 
not far away. But Roger sat disconsolately 
in his hammock. 

^‘Let’s go for a walk,” he said. ^‘Those 
kids make so much noise.” 

Marjory looked half wistfully at the chil- 
dren. They seemed to be having such good 
times. 

‘Where will we go?” she said. 

“I’ll show you,” said Roger. 

88 


THE PONY CART 

They went along the same pretty path 
Marjory had followed on her birthday 
morning. But they didn’t stop in the but- 
terfly hollow. The path began going up 
hill, just here, and they went along with it. 
Marjory soon lost her breath, and sank 
down in a little heap under a tall tree. 

^Tlease don’t go quite so fast,” she said. 

^^Girls never are any good at climbing,” 
he said. But he sat down. His own face 
was flushed and tired. 

^What makes you so cross, Roger?” said 
Marjory suddenly. “You are such a nice 
boy if you wouldn’t scowl so and say such 
scowly things.” 

Roger’s dark eyes flashed. 

“I’m not cross,” he said. “And if I am, 
I don’t care if I am.” 

“I’m not cross, since I knew Lissy Penny,” 
said Marjory. 


89 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“You don’t have any reason to be,” said 
Roger. “I have.” 

“What is the reason?” cried Marjory. 

“I can’t tell you,” said Roger. 

“Is it a big reason?” 

“Big enough.” 

“Can’t you ever tell me?” 

Roger shook his head, his scowl was big- 
ger and blacker than ever. 

“Oh, dear,” said Marjory, “then how can 
I ever help you any?” 

“You can’t,” said Roger. 

“Can’t Sally?” 

Roger shook his head. 

“Nor Dick?” 

“Not any one,” said Roger. 

And then suddenly he rolled over on his 
face. If he hadn’t been such a big boy, 
Marjory would have thought he was crying. 
But big boys never cried about things — even 
90 


THE PONY CART 

big bad things that couldn’t be helped. 

For what seemed a long time, Marjory 
sat still. Then she decided anything was 
better than just sitting there and staring at 
Roger’s disconsolate back. She got up and 
went slowly along the little mossy path. 
Roger would follow her in a minute. If he 
didn’t, she’d come back. 

Tempting little paths led off here and 
there from the main one. Marjory decided 
she’d take the prettiest and go wherever it 
did. 

Another pretty one led from that, and 
another from that. She went on and on. 
To her surprise, by and by, she came to a 
place where the trees were taller and far- 
ther apart. In the distance, she saw a road 
running back down the hill. And in a min- 
ute she saw a house. 

It was a pretty house with a porch run- 

91 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


ning almost all the way around it. Back of 
it was a large barn. Marjory decided she’d 
wait here until Roger came along. He 
must come in a minute now. 

There didn’t seem to be any one at home, 
except a pony harnessed to a pony-cart, 
waiting at a side door. At sight of Mar- 
jory, the pony neighed impatiently. 

She was a pretty little creature, with dark 
spots and light spots and a shaggy mane. 
The four-wheeled cart, which was of just 
the right size to go with her, was of wicker. 
It was cushioned with tan leather. There 
were tan lines, and a smart little whip which 
didn’t look as if it had been used much. A 
pair of small driving-gloves lay on the seat. 

Marjory forgot everything but that dear 
little horse and cart. 

^‘How I wish you were mine,” she cried. 
^‘Oh, how I wish you were mine.” 

92 


THE PONY CART 

The pony looked anxiously toward the 
house. So far as Marjory could see, there 
was nothing to keep her standing there. If 
she had taken it into her pony head to do so, 
she could have gone down the neat driveway 
to the road and down the road. Marjory 
could see herself hopping into that pretty 
cart, slipping on those little gloves, picking 
up lines and whip, and driving down the 
road wherever it went. 

She drew a deep breath. Then she ran 
up the steps. She crossed the porch and 
knocked on the door. It was half open, but 
no one answered. Marjory pushed the 
door open and went in. 

On the floor lay a little girl. Her bobbed 
black hair showed under a little round red 
hat with a red rosette. 

''Oh, dear,” thought Marjory. "Every 
one seems to be having trouble this after- 
93 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

noon. Maybe, I’d better go right away.” 

But the thought of that dear little spotted 
horse held her right there. She must find 
out about it. 

“Is — is the horse yours?” she asked. 

The little girl sat up, staring. A lock of 
black hair hung down over her eyes. Her 
red hat was tilted over one ear. Her eyes 
were bright and black through tears. 

“Who are you?” she cried. 

“Marjory Brook,” said Marjory. “Is 
something awful the matter?” 

“You’d think so,” said the other girl. 
She got to her feet and rubbed her eyes. 
“Just ’spose you had to go away off some- 
where where you’d never been and stay a 
whole summer. Wouldn’t that be awful?” 

“I did,” said Marjory. “I’m visiting my 
Grandmothers at The Willows. Isn’t any 
one going with you?” 


94 


THE PONY CART 


“Father,” said the little girl, with another 
rush of tears. “And mother and sister and 
brother and baby.” 

“Then what are you crying about?” said 
Marjory. “Who else is there who isn’t 
going?” 

“Molly,” wailed the little girl. “Oh, I 
just can’t leave Molly. And she can’t go. 
What shall I do?” 

“Molly?” said Marjory. 

“My dear, dear little po-o-ny,” cried the 
little girl. “Everybody’s gone somewhere 
this afternoon to do some last thing, ex- 
cept Molly and me. Father left me to 
drive her down to The Pines. Mr. Spicer 
down there is going to keep her for me. 
But, oh, I know he won’t be real good to 
her.” 

A shrill little neigh from outside inter- 
rupted just here 


95 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


“Molly doesn’t like men very well,” said 
the little girl. “Not even father. She just 
likes Susy — that’s all she likes. Hear her 
call me. Oh, what shall I do?” 

“Would she like — me?” said Marjory 
timidly. “ ’Cause if she would, I’d keep 
her till you come back. I’d take such care 
of her, Susy.” 

Susy stopped crying to stare at Marjory. 

“You’re one of the summer folks down at 
The Pines,” she said. 

“I’m not,” said Marjory. “Didn’t you 
hear me say just now I’m visiting Grandma 
Beach at The Willows, only I call it The 
House of the Grandmothers, ’cause there are 
three of ’em.” 

“That’s where Celia Dense lives,” said 
Susy. “Are you that little granddaughter- 
girl? I thought she was Margaret.” 

“They do call me that,” said Marjory; 

96 


THE PONY CART 


“I’m really Marjory. But I’m the grand- 
daughter. May I have Molly?” 

“If you only would,” said Susy. “It 
would relieve my mind greatly.” 

Just at that moment, out of the silent 
house, somewhere, spoke a clock. 

“One,” it said, “two, three, four!” 

“Four o’clock,” cried Marjory. “And I 
must be home by five. The Grandmas 
won’t like it if I’m late a minute. And 
where is that Roger Kent?” 

“We’ll get right into the cart,” said Susy, 
all at once brisk and full of business. “And 
we’ll drive straight to The Willows. It 
won’t take long by the road. And Molly 
can go — when she wants to — you’ll see.” 

“But Roger?” said Marjory anxiously. 

“He’s that sulky boy down at The Pines,” 
said Susy. “He’ll go back there, all right. 
He’s always wandering about by himself. 

97 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


Would you like to go live w^ith Marjory for 
awhile, Molly?” she cooed at the horse. 
^^She would,” she announced to Marjory. 
“See how she rubs her head on my shoulder. 
That means ^yes.’ ” 

“May I really have her?” said Marjory, 
reaching up to pet the little horse. “Won’t 
your father care — or any one?” 

“He’ll be dreadfully pleased,” said Susy. 
“He knows your Grandmas. Every one 
does round here. Father knew how I hated 
to let Molly go to The Pines. It would be 
too dreadful, wouldn’t it, Molly?” 

“I guess I’ve got money enough to pay 
for her now, Susy,” said Marjory anxiously. 
“But if I haven’t, Daddy’ll send me some.” 

“Pay for her?” cried Susy, her eyes flash- 
ing. “I’ll have you know, Molly isn’t for 
sale — not for all of your old money, Mar- 
jory.” 


98 


THE PONY CART 

“Why — just for the summer, I meant, 
Susy,” said Marjory. “I didn’t mean to 
buy her, exactly, but — rent her. Is that 
it?” 

Susy’s eyes stopped blazing to twinkle. 

“She isn’t for rent, either,” she said. 
“But I’ll lend her to you just till I get back. 
All you have to do is to feed her — and she 
won’t cost much this time of year, because 
she’ll eat grass mostly. But she does like 
sugar-lumps, you see, and candy and cookies. 
And Mr. Spicer wouldn’t ever give them to 
her. And he’d rent her to the summer- 
folks to drive. That was why I was so 
worried.” 

“I’ll give her all the sugar-lumps she’ll 
eat,” said Marjory. 

“Well, if we’re going to get to The Wil- 
lows at five, we’d better start,” said Susy. 
“I’ll put in the little rug for cold days and 
99 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

the duster for warm ones and her brush and 
curry-comb and everything.’^ 

Marjory climbed into the cart. Susy 
bustled back and forth from the barn. At 
the last minute, into the yard came a car 
with Susy’s father and mother and a baby 
sister in it. Of course they had to hear all 
about the deal. 

^‘Mrs. Beach of The Willows may not ap- 
prove, little folks,” drawled Susy’s good- 
natured father. ^‘But go, find out for your- 
selves. That’s the best way.” 

^Wesley’ll help take care of her,” said 
Marjory; ^^and I think Celia can persuade 
the Grandmas.” 

But the nearer they came to The House 
of the Grandmothers, the less likely it 
seemed. The two little girls in the pony 
cart were rather silent and anxious. The 
same thought was in both heads. Just sup- 
100 


THE PONY CART 

pose the Grandmas wouldn’t keep Molly. 

Perhaps the same thought was in Molly’s 
head, too. Anyway, she went more and 
more slowly past The Pines, through Glen- 
more, and along the drive unto The Wil- 
lows. There, standing on the side porch, 
was an excited little group. Grandma 
Beach, taller and stiffer than usual. Aunt 
Eunice, with her ear-trumpet, and Celia 
were all listening to Roger. Molly, seeing 
the end of her journey, broke into a brisk 
little trot, and drew up in fine style, at the 
foot of the steps. 

“She went off by herself,” Roger was say- 
ing. “I supposed she’d gone back to the 
hotel. But she wasn’t there ; so I came over 
to see if she had come home.” 

“I wasn’t lost, Roger,” cried Marjory, 
springing down from the cart. She was 
dusty and flushed. Her yellow hair was 
101 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

tumbled, its pink bow half off. ‘‘I just 
went on to Susy’s house. And please, 
Grandma Beach,” she hurried on, speaking 
loud so Grandma would be sure to hear 
right, ^‘may I keep Susy’s pony and cart 
while she’s gone away? She can’t bear to 
leave her, and I’d just love her, and she 
doesn’t eat much. Daddy will send me 
money to buy all her sugar-lumps. Please, 
Grandma Beach.” 

^‘Don’t shout so, child,” said Grandma 
Beach. ^‘One would think I was deaf, like 
your Aunt Eunice. Whatever do you want 
with a horse? You’re not big enough to 
drive one.” 

“I’m big as Susy, Grandma,” pleaded 
Marjory. “And it’s such a little horse. 
I know Daddy wouldn’t mind. Can’t 
you do something, Celia?” she whis- 
pered. 


102 


THE PONY CART 

“Miss Margaret does need exercise,” said 
Celia gravely. 

“She looks it at this minute, Celia,” said 
Grandma Beach, with a grim smile. 
“Take her in and help put her to rights for 
supper. She can go for a ride with Wesley 
whenever she needs air.” 

Marjory didn’t look at Susy or Roger. 
She lifted her tumbled yellow head high 
and started to obey Grandma. 

Then out from the door darted Granny. 
Her head was high, too. Her eyes spar- 
kled. 

“We want the dear little pony and cart 
to take us out riding, don’t we, dearie?” she 
cried. “Of course we do, Margaret. 
They shall be my birthday gift to my little 
grand-girl, till I find the pearl-box.” 

Down the steps to the pony tripped 
Granny. She stroked the soft nose and tan- 
103 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

gled her fingers in the shaggy mane. Molly 
reached toward her, eagerly nosing her 
hand. 

“Sugar-lumps, little Margie,’’ called 
Granny. “Run, get some sugar.” 


104 


CHAPTER VII 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

A ND when I came back,” said 
the next letter from Marjory 
/— % to Lissy, “everything had all 

been arranged. Susy’s father 
had come for her in the car. 
’Cause if Molly hadn’t stayed with us, 
she’d have been left at The Pines, you see. 
Susy was so glad she just hopped right up 
to Granny and kissed her hard. And 
Granny kissed back. Wesley takes beau- 
tiful care of her — Molly, I mean. She is 
white as snow where she is white, and 
shiny where she’s dark, and her mane and 
tail are lovely and fluffy. You’d love 
her, Lissy. Susy has freckles and a pug 
nose, but she makes me think of you. I 
wish she hadn’t gone west, but she has. 
Oh, Lissy, I do wish you were here to go 
to ride with Roger and Molly and me. 
It’s such fun.” 

When she read the letter, the busy little 
105 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

girl in the Penny flat almost wished so, too. 

Somehow, after Molly came to stay there. 
The House of the Grandmothers wasn’t near 
so quiet and dull as it had been before. 
Often, there was something so funny to tell 
about the little horse, that, even if it was at 
the table, Marjory forgot and told it. And 
Granny helped. Sometimes, they both 
laughed, and even Grandma Beach smiled, 
and told Aunt Eunice about it. 

Marjory would probably have killed the 
little horse with sugar, if she’d fed her 
whenever she wanted to. She bought a 
whole pound of lumps, because, as she told 
Celia, she didn’t feel the Grandmas ought to 
pay for all Molly ate. 

As for Molly herself, she liked her new 
home. But whenever she went out, she 
wanted to go back on the hill. Once, when 
Granny and Marjory were driving all by 
106 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

themselves, they let her have her own way. 
Straight up the hill she hurried, into the 
empty yard, stopping with an eager little 
neigh at the side porch with its closed door 
and fast-shut blinds. 

^‘Susy’ll come back in the fall,’’ Marjory 
comforted the little horse. She had to get 
out and lead the pony out of the yard and 
part way down the hill before she could 
persuade her to go back to The House of 
the Grandmothers. 

One afternoon Grandma Beach had a 
long talk with Roger’s cousin Sally over the 
’phone. At the end of it, she called Mar- 
jory. 

^‘Would you and Roger like to go for a 
ride this afternoon?” she asked. “All by 
yourselves? Mrs. Carr is going out for a 
motor ride with some friends. And she 
says Roger is used to horses.” 

107 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“Oh, may we, really?” cried Marjory. 

“I will allow you to drive alone to The 
Pines,” said Grandma, graciously. “The 
little horse seems quite safe. Roger will be 
waiting for you there. Be sure and be 
home by supper-time.” 

Marjory felt very proud of Molly and 
herself, too, when they set out all by them- 
selves. She did wish Lissy could see them. 
When she drew up at the steps of The Pines, 
she found Roger looking almost happy. 
And a crowd of admiring summer children 
watched them drive away. 

“We’re going to try a new road,” said 
Roger. “I like new roads. I’ll drive 
— your Grandma would want me to. 
But maybe I’ll let you drive, coming 
back.” 

“All right,” Marjory agreed pleasantly. 
“Where’ll we find the new road, Roger?” 

108 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

“There’ll be one waiting for us,” said 
Roger. 

They hadn’t gone far below The Pines, 
when a delightful new road showed itself 
winding away among tall pines and balsams 
and hemlocks and spruces. It didn’t look 
as if it were traveled much. 

“It wouldn’t do for a car,” said Roger. 
“But Molly can go nicely.” 

At each turn, the new road seemed love- 
lier. They met a brook on its way back to 
the river. They caught glimpses of rosy- 
faced flowers through the green. In places 
it was overgrown with grass and moss. 

“Maybe it goes to Fairy Land,” said 
Marjory softly. 

“Pshaw,” said Roger. “Woods like 
these are better than any of your old Fairy- 
Lands.” 

“But just suppose,” said Marjory eagerly, 
109 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“that we should meet a real live Fairy step- 
ping out of one of these old trees, and she 
should say, What is the treasured wish of 
your heart?’ what would you say, Roger?” 

To Marjory’s utter surprise, Roger 
dropped the lines. 

“What made you?” he cried. “Oh, what 
made you?” 

“What made I — what?” said Marjory. 

Molly, meanwhile, helped herself to 
grass. 

“Made me think of things to wish,” said 
Roger. “I’d almost forgotten — just for a 
little.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” cried Marjory. “Of 
course, I didn’t. But why won’t you tell me 
what it is you want, Roger? I’ve a purse 
full of money, and Daddy has lots more.” 

“Money won’t get it,” said Roger, wretch- 
edly. 


110 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

“Do — tell me, please,’^ begged Marjory. 

“I can’t,” said Roger, the black frown on 
his forehead. “You see, I promised Dick 
I wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Marjory. “Do write 
and ask him if you can’t tell just me.” 

“I don’t want you to know, I guess,” said 
Roger. 

Marjory felt somehow that Roger’s trou- 
ble must be something bigger than most 
boy-troubles are. She did so want to help 
him. But she couldn’t — when she didn’t 
even know what it was. 

Roger picked up the lines and brought 
Molly back into the road. It was all over- 
grown now, and grew narrower and nar- 
rower. It didn’t curve in and out looking 
for all the prettiest spots, but shot straight 
up the hillside. By and by it rattled over 
some stones, crossed a little rustic bridge, 
111 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

turned sharply, and came into a small 
cleared space. In the center of the space, 
quite as if it had been dropped there, was 
a little log house. 

“Oh, Roger,” cried Marjory, clapping 
her hands, “isn’t it dear? Wouldn’t it 
make the darlingest play-house that you 
ever saw?” 

Molly was left to nibble grass, while the 
children ran to the house. A good-sized 
porch, almost as large as the house, ran 
around it. Its steps and posts were all of 
logs. In the front of the house was a door. 
On each side of the door was a window. 
And on each side of the house were two 
windows. 

“It’s a camp,” said Roger. “Some one’s 
built it and gone off and left it.” 

“I don’t know what you call it,” said 
Marjory, “but I say it’s a play-house. And 
112 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 


the strange part of it is, it’s just exactly what 
I was going to ask the Fairy for.” 

Roger might scoff at Fairies, but he was 
just as much interested in the delightful lit- 
tle log-house as Marjory was. Through 
the windows they caught glimpses of a 
square low room. A fireplace was oppo- 
site the door. There was a door on one 
side of the fireplace. A deer head hung 
over the door. There were skins of ani- 
mals on the floor. 

^We’ve got to get in somehow,” said 
Marjory. 

That the door was locked didn’t make 
much difference. One of the windows at 
last slid up. Roger boosted and Marjory 
crawled through. A key was found in the 
lock of the door. It turned in a creaking 
rusty fashion. And the next minute, the 
door stood wide open. 

113 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

The children explored every nook and 
cranny of the delightful little house in the 
woods. The door near the fireplace led 
into a tiny lean-to of a kitchen. Back of 
this was a small porch. The ground sloped 
away into thick woods. But a little mossy 
path led the children straight to a cold clear 
mountain-spring. 

Going back into the house, Roger dis- 
covered the beds. They were bunks, 
which let down from the ceiling on strong 
chains. 

^‘Do you suppose it belongs to any one?” 
said Marjory. 

^‘One of your Fairies, maybe,” jeered 
Roger. 

^^Then — let’s move in,” said Marjory. 
“Let’s bring things from home and furnish 
it. I know just what we’ll need, ’cause 
Lissy writes me every single thing she and 
114 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

Doris buy for the flat. Chairs and tables 
and a couch — ” 

“Camps aren’t furnished much,” said 
Roger. “We’ll have a table and two chairs 
— one for each of us. We’ll gather balsam 
and make a couch.” 

“I’ll bring some of the red cushions,” said 
Marjory. 

“And we’ll each bring a hammock,” said 
Roger. 

“I’ll bring some old dishes,” said Mar- 
jory. ‘^Celia will let me, I know. Then 
some day we can have a party.” 

“Folks don’t have parties out in the woods 
like this,” said Roger. “They camp out 
and hunt and fish and do things like that.” 

“Well, we’ll camp out then,” said Mar- 
jory. “Only do let’s have it for our own 
little house, Roger.” 

“Don’t tell any one,” said Roger. “Or 
115 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

all those summer kids will be here and spoil 
everything.” 

“Just Celia and the Grandmas,” said 
Marjory. “But they won’t tell.” 

“Marjory,” said Roger suddenly, “if I 
can ever get it here. I’m going to bring my 
victrola. It’s just a little one, you know.” 

“Won’t that be lovely?” cried Marjory. 
“Will Sally let you?” 

“Sally don’t care what I do, so long as 
I’m not in her way,” said Roger. 

Molly had strayed down the road. It 
was lucky she had found just the kind of 
grass she liked best, or she might have gone 
all the way back to her old home. 

Marjory’s face was so bright and eager at 
the table that night. Grandma knew she 
wanted to talk. 

“You had a good ride, didn’t you, Mar- 
garet?” she said. 


116 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 


“Oh, Grandma,” bubbled Marjory, 
“Roger and I have found the dearest little 
house right in the woods. May we take 
things to it. Grandma, and have it for our 
play-house?” 

“Is it safe?” said Grandma. “Away 
from water?” 

“There’s just a spring there and the lit- 
tlest brook,” said Marjory. 

“Perhaps it will do the poor little boy 
good,” said Grandma. “You must do all 
you can for Roger, Margaret.” 

“Granny’ll help furnish the little play- 
house,” said Granny. 

Granny did. None of the other grown- 
ups remembered about it long. Only, of 
course. Grandma Beach had to be asked 
whenever Marjory and Roger went to it. 
But Granny was almost as much interested 
in it as the children themselves. She found 
117 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

a little spider-legged table with drawers in 
it, and two quaint chairs to match. These 
went up one day in the cart. She found 
odds and ends of old sprigged china. Mar- 
jory carried these up in her lap, and set them 
out in a little cupboard near the fireplace. 
Two hammocks went up and some scarlet 
cushions. And though Roger sniffed and 
said a camp didn’t want curtains. Granny 
and Marjory didn’t agree with him, and 
made some out of white muslin. When 
they were up and tied back with red ribbons 
to match the cushions, the little room was 
quite homelike. The fireplace, of course, 
couldn’t be used for fires, so Marjory filled 
it up with evergreens and red bunc'h-ber- 
ries. 

P.oger cut balsam boughs and piled them 
high in one corner of the porch. On this 
they put a scarlet and yellow blanket from 
118 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 

one of Granny’s many chests. Marjory’s 
hammock had its place on the porch. 
Roger’s was hung in the little green nest of 
evergreens near the spring. 

Of course, all this moving and settling 
took some time. It took longer because 
Roger insisted that nobody at The Pines 
should know anything about the play-house. 
Because of this secrecy, for a long time 
there was no way of getting the victrola 
there. 

Then one day Roger ran into the yard 
of The Willows quite out of breath. 

“They’re all gone for a row on the river,” 
he said. “Every single kid, except the 
babies — and they’re having naps. Now, we 
can take the victrola.” 

“Granny’s going with us to-day,” said 
Marjory. “She’s wild to see our house.” 

“She won’t care,” said Roger. “Gran- 
119 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

ny’s the best sport I -know of. She’ll think 
it’s a lark.” 

Sure enough, Granny did. She held 
Molly, while, between them, Marjory and 
Roger tugged and hoisted the victrola into 
the back of the cart. It was a good thing 
that it was so small, or they couldn’t have 
done it. But in it went and Roger got him- 
self in, too, and mounted guard over it. 

Almost to the camp, Roger had a sudden 
thought. Granny was telling Marjory one 
of her old-time stories. Marjory was lost 
to all else. Very quietly he slipped in a 
record and set the little machine going. 
The next minute, if there were any fairies 
about, as Marjory felt sure there must be, 
they must have fallen over each other with 
glee. For, as the strains of music rang out 
through the woods, Molly took to her heels. 
Granny hung on to her, and Marjory 
120 


THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS 


clutched Granny. And it was to the stir- 
ring notes of the Wedding March from 
Lohengrin that the whole turnout drew up 
at the door of the house in the woods. 

^^And Roger lay right down flat on the 
ground and laughed,’’ wrote Marjory to 
Lissy. “It was the very first time I’ve 
ever known him to laugh, Lissy. And 
the victrola’s so pretty in one of our front- 
windows. We can play it all the time if 
we want to — nobody cares. Granny and 
I dance to it. Then we sat on the porch 
and ate cookies. I never ate such good 
cookies. Molly had two. There’s one 
thing we just can’t settle about — that’s 
the name for our camp. Roger says all 
woods camps have names. He says 
Camp Happy is silly. And Fairy Camp 
is silly. Brook Camp sounds as if it was 
all mine. When I tried Kent Camp he 
said it sounded as if I stuttered. I like 
Kent-Brook for both of us, but he says 
that sounds like a guide-book. Do think 
of a name for it, Lissy, as good as The 
Penny Bank. 

“To-day, Roger showed Granny and 
me his book of sketches. They’re per- 
121 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


fectly wonderful. But he won’t draw 
anything for me — not even a picture of 
the camp. I wanted one for you. But 
he was dreadfully cross about it.” 

Later a postscript was added. 

“Granny named the camp for us. She 
said when we were riding home, ‘I like 
your Good Times Camp.’ And Roger 
just shouted, ‘It’s named, Margie, it’s 
named.’ ‘Good Times Camp’ — doesn’t 
it sound good, Lissy? Don’t you wish 
you could see it?” 


122 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE CRUISE OF THE ^'WATER LILY” 

I T was dreadfully hot. The ground 
was baked. The flowers hung drowsy 
heads. The air swam with light and 
heat. Everywhere locusts shrilled. 

Even the old willow drooped, each tiny 
leaf still. But the murmur of the river 
made it seem cooler there than anywhere 
else. Roger lay flat in the grass in the deep- 
est shade. Marjory, in a thin white gown, 
sat in the willow-nest. Her book had fallen 
to the ground. 

^‘Oh, let’s do something,” cried Roger, 
sitting up. He turned his back to the sun. 
The scowl on his forehead was big and 
black. 

^What?” said Marjory, listlessly, 

123 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘^You think of something,” commanded 
Roger. 

“I was trying to think of icebergs and ice- 
lemonade tinkling in glasses,” said Mar- 
jory. “That’s the way Lissy does when it’s 
hot.” 

“I’m sick to death hearing about Lissy,” 
cried Roger. “You’re always Lissy-ing.” 

“Don’t care if I am,” said Marjory. She 
sat up straight, her cheeks scarlet with heat 
and temper. “Lissy’s never cross and im- 
polite, anyhow.” 

“I’m not, either,” snapped Roger. “My 
head aches and this sun hurts it.” 

“Let’s go to the store and get ice-cream 
cones,” said Marjory. “I’ve some money 
in my little bead purse.” 

“Too hot,” said Roger. Then suddenly, 
in a different voice, he exclaimed, “I know 
what let’s do, Margie!” 

124 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILT^ 

“I can’t think of anything beter than ice- 
cream,” said Marjory. 

^‘This has ice-cream in it,” hurried 
Roger. ’Way down the river is a little 
place called Riverside where they keep the 
best ice-cream. They have all kinds, and 
you eat it at little tables down by the river. 
Sally took me there once.” 

Marjory shook her head. 

^‘We never could walk so far, Roger^” she 
said. ^‘And you know Grandma says it’s 
too hot for Molly to go out till after sup- 
per.” 

“Nobody wants her to,” said Roger. 
“We’ll take the boat.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t, could we?” cried Mar- 
jory, thrilled at the thought. 

“Guess if I can row on the St. Lawrence, 
where Dick lives, I can on this dinky little 
stream,” said Roger. 

125 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“I’m afraid the Grandmas wouldn’t like 
it,” said Marjory slowly. 

“They’re all asleep,” said Roger, looking 
toward the house with its tight-shut blinds 
and doors. “We’ll be back before they even 
begin to wake up.” 

Marjory knew perfectly well that the 
Grandmas wouldn’t like Roger’s plan. She 
knew she ought not to go. But when she 
thought about it, afterward, it almost seemed 
that there were two Marjories inside her 
that hot afternoon. One was the little new 
Marjory, who was trying to be just as good 
a granddaughter as Lissy. The other was 
the little old Marjory who had always 
pleased herself, no matter whether any one 
else was pleased or not. The little new 
Marjory said, “Oh, I wouldn’t do that!” 
And the little old Marjory asked pertly, 
“Well, why not, I’d like to know?” 

126 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILT^ 

Meanwhile, Roger had something to say, 
too. 

‘Wesley and Celia won’t get back from 
Ridgewood till supper-time,” he pleaded. 

“Lissy wouldn’t do it,” said the little new 
Marjory. “Bother Lissy!” said the little 
old Marjory, impolitely pushing the little 
new Marjory to one side. “Go on, do it. 
Besides, you know yourself, that Grandma 
Beach says you must be good to Roger and 
make him happy.” 

“I wouldn’t be a ’fraid cat,” taunted 
Roger. 

“I’m not,” said Marjory. She got to her 
feet. She marched through the sun to the 
steps and down them to the boat. She 
clambered in, clutching at the edges. 
Roger gave the boat a push, sprang in, and 
took up the oars. He seemed to know how 
to use them. 


127 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“We’ll keep in the shade,” he said, 
“where the water doesn’t dazzle so.” 

The Water Lily crept along in the shade 
of the willows. Marjory trailed her hand 
in the water. She tried to think she was 
having the best time she’d ever had. 
But, somehow, she wasn’t very happy. 
Roger didn’t look any happier than usual, 
either. 

“It’s a heavy old scow,” he complained. 
“You ought to see Dick’s skiff — it skims 
along like a bird.” 

“I’ve been in lovely boats,” said Mar- 
jory, “with Daddy on the Hudson River.” 

“Pshaw,” said Roger, “you ought to see 
the St. Lawrence.” 

“The St. Lawrence isn’t any bigger than 
the Hudson,” said Marjory. She didn’t 
know whether it was or not. But Roger 
needn’t be so important about his river, as 
128 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILT^ 

if he owned it. “And it hasn’t any moun- 
tains, either.” 

“Well, it has islands — a thousand or so,” 
said Roger. 

“What’s an island?” cried Marjory, 
stamping her foot. 

“Stop that,” cried Roger. “You mustn’t 
ever stamp your foot in a boat, Marjory. 
Don’t you know you might tip us over?” 

Marjory hadn’t felt so much like the little 
old Marjory, who used often to stamp and 
cry, in a long, long time. It was a lucky 
thing that just then the Water Lily sighted 
the landing for Riverside. Roger brought 
the boat up skillfully, jumped out, and tied 
it. Marjory hopped out and they went, 
red-cheeked and cross, to one of the little 
tables. 

The table was in the coolest place. The 
ice-cream was delicious. But it didn’t taste 
129 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

good to Marjory. And Roger’s head 
ached. They didn’t say much. When they 
had finished, Marjory went to a little stand 
near by and bought some cookies. 

“What do you want those sticky things 
for?” asked Roger, as they set out again for 
the boat. 

“They’re for Molly,” said Marjory. 
“She likes cookies.” 

Back in the boat, Marjory saw that Roger 
was trying to row across the stream. It was 
wide and deep here and the current seemed 
swift and strong. 

“What are you doing?” she cried. 

“I’m going over to rest in the shade,” said 
Roger. “It’s hours before supper-time.” 

“Oh, please don’t,” begged Marjory, 
much distressed. “It isn’t safe — I know it 
isn’t. Wesley says there’s an undertow to 
this river.” 


130 


CRUISE OF THE ‘‘WATER LILT’ 


“What’s that?” scoffed Roger. 

“I don’t know,” said Marjory, “but it 
sounds dreadful. Do please let’s go home, 
Roger.” 

Roger was finding the Water Lily rather 
hard to guide across stream. 

“We’ll go on upstream a little way till 
we come to a nice cool spot. I’m going to 
rest somewhere before I row back.” 

The current swept them back to the side 
of the river. Roger pulled away at the 
oars. The river grew narrower. The 
shores were heavily wooded. 

“Here’s a good place,” he said at last. 
He brought the Water Lily into a cove, 
where the trees grew thick and dark down 
to the very edge of the water. He fastened 
her to a moss-covered stump and led the 
way through vines and underbrush. In a 
few minutes they came to a little hollow 
131 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

that looked cool. They both sank down on 
the moss. It wasn’t cool at all. It was hot 
and sultry. There were swarms of gnats 
and mosquitoes. 

Marjory didn’t like it. Somehow, she 
didn’t like anything this afternoon. 

‘‘Let’s go,” she said, after a few minutes 
of fighting off mosquitoes. 

“You’d be tired,” said Roger, “if you’d 
rowed that heavy old boat. Leave me 
alone, can’t you?” 

Marjory wandered off by herself. Any- 
thing was better than sitting still when you 
felt so uncomfortable inside. She went 
down nearer the river where the trees 
weren’t so thick. The air was very close. 
There was a far-off rumble that wasn’t the 
river’s voice. Looking up, Marjory saw 
that the sky was dark with clouds. 

“Oh, Roger,” she cried breathlessly, hur- 
132 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILY" 

rying back to him, going to storm — the 
sky’s dreadfully black! Do let’s hurry and 
get home!” 

Roger rolled over. Just at that minute, 
the leaves overhead stirred a little. The 
sound of thunder was coming nearer and 
nearer. 

^Tt won’t last long,” he said, getting to his 
feet. ^‘Honest it won’t, Margie. I’ve been 
out in mountain-storms before. We’ll just 
have to wait till it’s over.” 

^^Not out here in the woods?” cried Mar- 
jory. ‘‘Couldn’t we get home if we hur- 
ried?” 

“Glad I’m not a girl,” said Roger. 
“Afraid of thunder-storms.” 

“I’m not afraid of thunder-storms,” said 
Marjory, “not a bit, when I’m home. But 
I don’t like it out here.” 

“It would be heaps worse on the river,” 
133 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

said Roger. ^‘Besides, this will be over in 
a minute. Gee — here it comes!” 

The storm was right upon them. There 
was a sharp flash of lightning, followed al- 
most at once by a deafening peal of thunder 
which rolled and rolled about, echoing 
from one hill to another. The next min- 
ute, the woods were swept by a mighty wind 
which tore and whipped them and seemed 
to try to lay them flat. The river ruffled 
and seemed to flow upstream for a minute. 
Then down came a deluge of rain. 

The children crouched miserably under 
the trees. Roger forgot to be cross. 

“It’s almost over — honest, Margie,” he 
said. 

It was. There were only a few sharp 
flashes of lightning, answered by quick 
crashing thunder. The ground under the 
trees.was scarcely wet before the wind died 
134 



“ THE CHILDREN CROUCHED MISERABLY UNDER THE TREES/'' 





CRUISE OF THE “WATER LILY’’ 

down as suddenly as it had come up, there 
was a quick pelting of raindrops in a hurry 
to be gone, a last long roar of departing 
thunder — then out flashed the sun. 

“There, that’s over,” said Roger. 
“Didn’t I tell you so, Margie? Now, we’ll 
go home as fast as ever you like.” 

They couldn’t go fast enough for Mar- 
jory. She was first at the river bank. 
Everything sparkled with raindrops. 

“Where’s the boat?” she cried, staring at 
the old mossy stump. 

At the same minute, Roger shouted, 

“The boat, Margie — see, the wind’s taken 
the boat!” 

It was plain that the Water Lily hadn’t 
waited to take on her crew and passenger. 
All by herself, with the help of the wind, 
she had set sail. There she was, far away 
down stream, bobbing good-by to the two 
135 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

shipwrecked little folks on the edge of the 
woods. 

“What shall we do?” cried Marjory. 
“Oh, Roger, what shall we do?” 

“Keep still,” said Roger sharply. “I’m 
trying to think.” 

He stood still a minute gazing after the 
departing boat. His scowl was deep and 
dark. 

“We’re on our own side of the river, 
that’s one good thing,” he said at last. “So 
far as I can see, all we’ve got to do is to fol- 
low the river back to The Pines. That’s 
easy.” 

Marjory set out bravely, tramping along 
back of Roger. They went for some dis- 
tance, the river leading them, through un- 
derbrush and a low growth of timber. But 
by and by, they came to a place where, not 
being a river, they couldn’t slip through. 

136 


CRUISE OF THE **WATER LILT^ 

“There goes the Water Lily/^ cried Mar- 
jory. 

Far away, down the bright stream on its 
way back to The Willows, went the Water 
Lily. 

“I don’t see it,” said Roger, impatiently, 
shading his eyes with his hand. 

“Well, it’s gone now,” said Marjory. 
“What shall we do next, Roger?” 

They sat down to think things over. The 
river was bright in the late afternoon sun. 
Much of the heat had gone with the storm. 
Warm, wet, earthy smells were everywhere. 

“We can eat Molly’s cookies,” said Mar- 
jory, opening the sticky bag. “So we won’t 
starve.” 

“We won’t starve,” said Roger. But he 
took a cooky and munched away on it. 

“Do you think Wesley will come for us?” 
asked Marjory. 


137 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

find the boat is gone, of course,’’ 
said Roger. “But he won’t know which 
way it went, or anything, Margie. So, 
maybe we’d better not expect him too 
much.” 

“What shall we do then?” cried Mar- 
jory. 

“We’ll find a trail,” said Roger. “Trails 
always lead somewhere.” 

But the paths they found seemed go- 
ing nowhere in particular. They tangled 
and twisted and brought the children 
back where they’d started from. When, 
after a long tramp, they found themselves 
back in the place where they’d eaten 
the cookies, they sat down to rest again. 
The river was bright with sunset color 
now. 

“What will the Grandmas say?” cried 
Marjory. 


138 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILY” 

Roger’s face was white. His eyes looked 
dark and tired. 

^We’ll try again,” he said. ^^It won’t be 
dark for ever so long, Margie.” 

They set out again. By and by, amongst 
all the baffling paths that led nowhere, they 
stumbled into one that seemed to know 
where it was going and to keep on going 
there. The woods began to grow shadowy. 

“But it really isn’t dark,” said Roger. 
“See the red in the sky.” 

“That’s right back of the old willow,” 
said Marjory, with a little tremble in her 
voice. “Oh, Roger, I wish we hadn’t 
come.” 

With all his stubborn little heart, Roger 
wished so, too. But he wasn’t quite ready 
to say so. 

“I’ve slept out in the woods with Dick,” 
he said. “It isn’t half bad.” 

139 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Maybe it wouldn’t be bad to sleep in the 
woods when you were out camping and 
knew where you were and every one else 
knew, too. But when you were just plain 
lost — that was a different matter. But 
Marjory didn’t say anything. She marched 
sturdily along beside Roger when she could, 
back of him when the path was too narrow 
for two. 

“Are we going up a mountain?” she 
asked by and by, wearily. 

“There aren’t any real mountains here,” 
said Roger. “These are just foothills. 
Gee, you ought to climb a real mountain, 
Margie.” 

“I don’t want to,” said Marjory. 

The darkness came down. They didn’t 
talk any more. But they took hold of hands 
and plodded on. 

The last streak of scarlet died out of the 
140 


CRUISE OF THE ^^WATER LILT^ 

west. It was twilight outside of the woods. 
Inside, it was quite dark. Strange winged 
things brushed their faces. There were 
new strange sounds, too, of little scrambling 
feet and timid wild voices. Some of the 
little wood-folks were hurrying home. 
Others were going out hunting. Still, the 
path climbed the hill. Still, Marjory and 
Roger, hand in hand, climbed with it. 

“We’ll just have to stop,” said Roger at 
last; “it’s too dark to see any longer.” 

“Oh, don’t let’s stop,” cried Marjory. 
“Let’s keep going as long as the path does. 
Please, Roger.” 

Roger stumbled on a few steps. He ran 
into a tree and bumped his p^oor head. 

“I can’t go any farther — honest, I can’t, 
Margie,” he said. “Let’s stop right here 
and rest awhile. Maybe the moon will 
come up by and by.” 


141 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Marjory stopped short. Her eyes peered 
through the gathering darkness on all sides. 
In front of them, it seemed a little brighter 
and there were fewer trees. She stumbled 
along a few" steps. 

“It’s all cleared out just ahead, Roger,” 
she cried. “And there’s some sort of a 
building. There’s something red on the 
porch. It’s — it’s — Roger Kent, it’s Good 
Times Camp!” 


142 


CHAPTER IX 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 

C ELIA, Wesley, and the thunder- 
storm reached The Willows at 
about the same minute that sul- 
try August afternoon. Celia dashed to the 
great willow, caught up Marjory’s book and 
cushion, and scurried up the steps of the 
porch just as the rain came. 

She was putting down windows on the 
storm-side of the house, when Granny 
called. 

‘‘Send the children up to me,” she said. 
“Aren’t they there?” cried Celia. She 
had supposed, of course, the children had 
taken shelter in Granny’s room. 

Granny didn’t hear, and Celia went on 
closing windows. As she went into the liv- 
143 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

ing-room, Grandma Beach said it was 
draughty and asked Celia to close the door. 
Aunt Eunice said it was close and would 
she please leave the door open. Perhaps, 
because she could hear them, Aunt Eunice 
always liked thunder-storms. 

Marjory and Roger weren’t anywhere in 
the house, Celia decided. They must have 
run into the barn. Celia hurried through 
the yard, where wet grass and leaves were 
already sparkling with returning sunshine. 

‘‘Miss Margaret,” she called, “Miss Mar- 
garet.” 

As Marjory was, at this very minute, 
standing disconsolately on the shore of the 
river watching the Water Lily bob out of 
sight, it’s no wonder she didn’t hear Celia. 

From the barn, Celia ran to The Pines. 
She didn’t telephone because she didn’t want 
to upset the Grandmas. 

144 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 


‘‘They aren’t here,” said pretty Cousin 
Sally. She smiled at Celia from clouds of 
motoring veil. She had just come in from 
a ride. “Our ride was spoiled by the 
storm,” she said. “And now it’s too late 
to start out again.” 

“But they must be,” said Celia, anxiously. 
“I’ll just look around a little, please, Mrs. 
Carr.” 

“Oh, if you like,” said Sally Carr. “I 
don’t keep much watch of Roger. He’s 
quite big enough to look out for himself, and 
the little girl, too.” 

No amount of looking about found any 
trace of the children. The other children 
said Roger hadn’t been there all the after- 
noon. But Sally was still quite undis- 
turbed. 

“Perhaps they went for a walk,” she sug- 
gested. 


145 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“It was too hot,” said Celia. “That’s 
why Wesley and I didn’t take them to town 
with us.” 

“Didn’t they take the pony-cart?” asked 
Sally. “You never can tell what children 
will take it into their heads to do, my good 
woman.” 

Celia didn’t like being called a good 
woman. She hurried back to The Willows. 
As she went into the barn for another look, 
she heard Molly’s eager neigh, so she knew 
the pony was there. And Marjory’s new 
driving-gloves and her hat were on the seat 
of the cart. 

“I’ll harness you, Molly,” said Celia. 
“Then, if they aren’t here in half an hour. 
I’ll start out to look them up.” 

Just then Wesley came into the barn. 

“Celia,” he said slowly, “the boat’s gone. 
It might have washed away, but I tied it 
146 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 


myself, and it doesn’t seem just likely.” 

After that, there was confusion enough 
in The House of the Grandmothers. Celia 
called up The Pines. Mrs. Carr still 
wouldn’t worry. Roger was used to boats. 
They would be quite all right. Mr. Spicer 
would watch for them, and when they came, 
she’d just keep Margaret for dinner. 

But in The House of the Grandmothers, 
no one thought anything about eating. 
Grandma Beach walked from room to room, 
grim and silent. Aunt Eunice wept. 
Celia stood at the telephone asking every- 
where in Glenmore if anything had been 
seen of the two children. Wesley borrowed 
a boat and set out down the river. 

By and by word came from Riverside 
that two children had been there alone be- 
fore the storm came up. No one knew 
whether they came by road or river. The 
147 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

boy was tall and the girl a little golden- 
haired thing. She had left a small beaded 
purse at the candy stand. It had been kept 
for her. 

^ When this news had been shouted into 
Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet, she wept all 
over again. 

“Her little birthday purse,” she mourned. 
“To think she may never need it again.” 
“Be quiet, Eunice,” said Grandma Beach. 
The sky blazed with sunset. It began to 
grow dark. Celia made tea for the Grand- 
mas. Granny was out in the old willow and 
wouldn’t come in for any. Celia carried 
it to her there. 

When Wesley came back, towing the 
Water Lily, it was quite dark. He had 
found the boat stranded on a tiny island be- 
low The Pines. 

He and another man started out again at 
148 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 

once to search the shores of the river. They 
were very silent as they went away. Mr. 
Spicer and others would join them at The 
Pines, they told Celia. 

Celia could stand it no longer. 

“I’m going to look, myself, with Molly,''*’ 
she cried. “You can answer the ’phone, 
Mrs. Beach.” 

But when Celia went into the barn, this 
time, there was no welcoming neigh from 
friendly little Molly. And her stall was 
empty. Then Celia saw that the cart was 
gone, too. The old horses had been taken 
out earlier in the evening to help in the 
search of the roads. 

“Some one’s borrowed Molly, too,” 
thought Celia. “Well, I’ll go on foot. 
Maybe, I’ll find them at The Pines. 
Maybe, I’ll meet them just coming home. 
Maybe — ” 


149 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Celia didn’t finish that last “Maybe.” 
There was a brisk rattle of wheels on the 
long bridge across the river. The pony- 
cart, with hungry little Molly tugging at 
her bit, came flying across it, turned into 
The Willows, passed Celia, and went on 
toward the porch. 

“Whoa!” cried a little voice brimful of 
business. 

In the light from the windows, Celia saw 
Granny in the cart. A little girl scrambled 
down from it. For just a minute, Celia 
thought it was Marjory. But this little girl 
was taller. And she wore a dark suit and 
hat. Wherever Marjory was, she was in 
white and bare-headed. This must be one 
of the little summer-girls from The Pines. 

“Has Margie been found?” she cried. 

“Not yet,” said Celia. 

“Granny and I will find her,” cried the 
150 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 


little girl. “You’re Celia, aren’t you? 
Well, don’t you worry, Celia, we’ll find her 
and bring her back all right. You just tell 
the Grandmas so. We won’t be very long.” 

There was something so sure in the little 
girl’s voice that, for a minute, Celia felt 
sure, too. 

“I wonder who she is,” she said to her- 
self, as she hurried back to the house to see 
if anything had been heard by ’phone. 

Meantime, out of the yard went the pony- 
cart, the little girl, and Granny. Celia 
could hear Molly’s unwilling hoofs as they 
broke into a trot. 

Roger and Marjory sank down wearily 
on the porch of Good Times Camp. There 
was the balsam-couch with its gay blanket 
and cushions. There was the hammock. 
Inside, the little spider-legged table and 
151 


MARJORY AT THE V/ILLOWS 

chairs waited for them. Over all, fell the 
soft friendly darkness. 

^^It’s almost as good as getting home,” 
said Roger. 

^‘If the Grandmas only knew we were 
here,” said Marjory, wistfully. “Can’t we 
hurry right on, Roger? We know the way 
now.” 

“We couldn’t go all that long woods road 
in the dark,” said Roger. 

“Let’s try,” pleaded Marjory. 

“Honest, I can’t,” said Roger. “And 
we’d only get lost again, Margie.” 

Roger’s voice was so tired 'Marjory 
hadn’t the heart to say anything more. But 
she looked longingly at the road that led 
away down the side of the hill. 

“People who camp out usually have a 
bonfire,” said Roger, after a minute. 

“It would be comfy,” said Marjory. 

152 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 

“We said we wouldn’t,” said Roger. 
“So, maybe we’d better not. We’ve done 
enough things we ought not to, I guess, 
Margie.” 

“Yes,” said Marjory soberly. 

They decided they’d eat the rest of the 
cookies. And Marjory remembered some 
crackers and jam they’d left in the cup- 
board of the camp. They brought them out 
on the porch and ate them, too. 

“Let’s sleep outside,” said Roger, “as if 
we were really camping out.” 

“I like it better outside,” said Marjory; 
“it seems nearer home, anyway.” 

“Let’s have some music,” said Roger. 
“Then we’ll go to bed. It gets light ever so 
early now, and just as soon as it does, we’ll 
hurry home. We’ll be there to breakfast, 
Margie.” 

Marjory nodded. 

153 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

^‘And — you needn’t worry about the 
Grandmas,” said Roger quite unexpectedly, 
tell them ’twas all my fault.” 

‘‘It — wasn’t,” said . Marjory, “I’ll tell 
them it wasn’t, Roger.” 

Roger put in a record in the dark. It 
turned out to be one of the gayest in his col- 
lection. It was strange enough, sitting up 
there in the little woods camp on the side of 
the mountain, with the wild gay notes leap- 
ing out through the darkness. The moon 
was so surprised, when she came out, that 
she peered down through the treetops to 
see what on earth was going on. And she 
smiled in friendly fashion when she saw the 
two desolate little campers on the porch of 
Good Times Camp. Somehow, her twinkle 
and the gay tones of the victrola helped 
cheer things up a little. 

“Here’s Granny’s tune,” said Roger, look- 
154 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 


ing over the records in a moonlit corner of 
the room. “We’ll sit up till that’s through. 
Then we’ll go to bed, Margie.” 

The notes of Money Musk tripped in 
stately fashion through the moonlight. All 
the little wood-echoes that lived anywhere 
around caught them up and carried them 
away and away through the woods and down 
the long, dark, winding road. A pony clip- 
clapping up the hill in the most disconsolate 
fashion, pricked up her ears at the sound, 
then set off at her best pace. 

Marjory had the balsam-couch for her 
bed. Roger covered her with the red and 
yellow blanket. Then he crept into her 
hammock. 

Marjory was asleep almost as soon as her 
head touched the little red pillows that 
Granny’s loving hands had made. 

But she roused up because a voice that 

155 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

sounded like Roger’s, said from the ham- 
mock, 

“You’re a regular brick, Margie. Most 
girls would have cried. You are the first 
girl I ever liked.” 

“Say it again,” cried Marjory, sitting up. 
“Oh, did you say it, Roger? Or did I 
dream it?” 

But Roger was asleep. Marjory could 
see his dark head, all curly from the heat, 
against the red pillow. 

“He couldn’t have said anything like 
that,” said Marjory. 

The next minute, or several minutes later, 
Marjory found herself sitting up again and 
listening for some sound that had wakened 
her. The moon was higher now, and it 
was almost as bright as day in the little clear- 
ing. What was that sound — far off and 
faint, but coming nearer, nearer, nearer, like 
156 


GRANNY TAKES A RIDE 


the sound of quick little hoofs on a stony 
road? “Clip-clap, clip-clap,” nearer and 
nearer it came. 

“I must be dreaming,” thought Marjory 
again. 

“Clip-clap, clip-clap, rattle, rattle, rat- 
tle,” across the bit of a bridge, along the 
stones, came the quick dainty little steps and 
the sound of cart-wheels. 

“Roger,” cried Marjory. “Oh, Roger, 
do wake up — they’re coming for us with 
Molly!” 

Roger’s dark head came up quickly. 
Next minute, straight into the white patch 
of moonlight, came a spotted little horse 
and a cart. The pony neighed in hungriest 
fashion. She always found cookies or 
sugar at this stopping-place as she well 
knew. On the seat of the cart sat a small, 
straight figure with silver hair. 

157 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘‘Margie,” quavered a sweet old voice. 

“Oh, Granny! Granny! Granny!” cried 
Marjory. She was halfway to the cart. 
Roger was close behind her. Then an- 
other small figure that was with Granny in 
the cart, sprang over the wheel. This last 
figure fairly flew to meet Marjory. 

“Margie!” cried a joyous little voice. 

“Lissy — Lissy Penny!” cried Marjory. 
She would have fallen down on the pine- 
needles if Lissy’s two sturdy little arms 
hadn’t been tight around her. “Where — 
where — where — did you come from?” 

“I knew we’d find you — Granny, Molly 
and I,” cried Lissy. She never let go of 
Marjory for a minute. “Now, hop right 
into the cart. Roger, too. We’ll all man- 
age, somehow. And we’ll explain as we 
go along.” 


158 


CHAPTER X 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 

R oger dropped down wearily in 
the back of the little cart. Mar- 
jory cuddled down between 
Granny and Lissy. It was so good to be 
there, with Granny’s arm fast around her, 
and Lissy’s eager voice talking to her, that 
she didn’t care much, just then, how it all 
had come about. 

But Lissy did. 

“I just had to come, Margie,” she cried. 
“Papa Penny says he knew I would, give 
me time. And Doris was all settled — it’s 
the dearest little house, just like a doll’s 
house. I just had to know the Grandmas 
and Roger and Molly. Papa Penny wrote 
159 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


to Celia to expect me this evening and I 
came every bit of the way alone. Then 
there wasn’t any one to meet me at Ridge- 
wood, and a man said the stage had gone, 
so I just decided I’d walk. ’Twasn’t far, 
and I left my suitcase at the station. The 
stage will bring it in the morning. All of 
a sudden, coming along by the river, didn’t 
I see a dear little horse and a cart? And 
didn’t I just know it was Molly? And 
then there was Granny. And I knew her, 
too, the minute I saw her. But all she 
would say over and over was, “Margie is 
lost. Margie is lost. Molly and Granny 
must find her.” I knew she wouldn’t find 
you going toward Ridgewood, ’cause if 
you’d been anywhere around there, I’d have 
seen you. So I hopped in and turned 
around, and we came back to the Grandmas’ 
House just as fast as ever we could. We 
160 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 

stopped to tell Celia I’d find you. And I 
did, Margie. I did. We all heard the vic- 
trola ’way down the road, and how we did 
hurry.” 

Lissy squeezed Marjory’s hand with her 
free one. Molly decided it was quite time 
for that long-delayed supper of hers. She 
broke into one of her fastest runs, and away 
they flew! They went down hill so fast 
that Marjory clutched Roger by his hair 
for fear he’d spill out and get lost all over 
again. 

They rounded the corner to the Glenmore 
road in fine style, and drew up with a breath- 
less flourish at The Pines. 

^‘Here they are,” said Cousin Sally’s 
cool sweet voice. ^Wou are very naughty 
children to have made every one so much 
trouble.” 

The summer people all crowded down to 
161 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


receive Roger. His face was red and cross. 
He had scarcely a word for any one. 

• ‘‘The boy’s tired out,” said Granny un- 
expectedly. “Don’t ask questions, and don’t 
scold. Feed him, and put him to bed.” 

Molly didn’t wait to see what happened 
to Roger. She dashed ahead to The Wil- 
lows. Nor did she stop at the porch at 
Celia’s excited call. She bore her load 
straight to the barn and into the barn. She 
would have gone on into her stall, had not 
its door been too narrow for the cart. 

Wesley came from somewhere to look 
after Molly. Celia was there, too, and 
Aunt Eunice sobbed. Lights bobbed about. 
Marjory found herself where she had never 
been before — in Grandma Beach’s arms. 
And they were like the arms of a story-book 
Grandma. The kisses on her face were like 
story-book Grandma’s kisses. And when 
162 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


she tried to say how naughty she’d been and 
how sorry she was for all the trouble and 
worry she’d caused, Grandma kissed her 
again, and said something like, ‘‘Don’t talk 
about it to-night.” 

Marjory was too tired and sleepy to talk 
about anything. She fell asleep trying to 
eat bread and milk. When she woke up, 
next morning, she didn’t remember going 
to bed at all. But there she was. She lay 
still for a minute trying to think what was 
dream and what was real. She had really 
been lost — she was sure of that. And she 
must have been found. But had Lissy 
really found her? She raised up carefully. 
There, on the other pillow was Lissy’s own 
red-brown head. Lissy wasn’t a dream. 

Marjory drew a long happy breath over 
that. Then very softly she crept out of bed. 
She put on her pink bathgown and pink 
163 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

slippers. She pit-patted to Grandma’s 
room. It was cool with its blinds closed 
against the morning sun. The bed was 
made. Aunt Eunice’s room was just as 
empty and orderly. 

Marjory heard voices on the porch. She 
hurried downstairs. 

All three Grandmas were on the porch. 
Grandma Beach was knitting. Aunt 
Eunice was counting beads. 

“He seems such a nice little boy,” Gran- 
ny’s voice was saying. “I’m sure, Mar- 
garet, he didn’t mean to do wrong about the 
boat.” 

“Grandma Beach,” said Marjory from 
the doorway, “it was just as much my fault 
as it was Roger’s that we went off in the 
boat yesterday, and got lost, and everything. 
Please don’t blame him. You can punish 
me any way you want to.” 

164 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


Something left in Grandma Beach’s eyes 
made Marjory think of the story-book 
Grandma of last night. But her voice was 
almost as usual. 

“Roger says that it is his fault, Mar- 
garet,” she said. “It was a dreadful time 
for us all. And it’s quite remarkable that 
Granny isn’t dead after that ride. She 
thinks you’ve suffered enough, yourself, so 
you won’t do such a thing again. Perhaps 
she’s right.” 

“Oh, I’ll never do it again,” said Mar- 
jory. “Of course not. Grandma Beach. I 
wouldn’t have gone, yesterday, only — ” 
Marjory stopped. She didn’t know how 
to tell Grandma Beach about the two Mar- 
jories. She’d tell Granny sometime. 
Granny would understand. 

“Never mind now,” said Grandma Beach. 
“Run and get dressed.” 

165 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Halfway upstairs, Marjory heard Grand- 
ma Beach call her back. 

“Keep the little girl to dinner with you,” 
she said. “Then we’ll send her back to 
The Pines.” 

“Send her back to The Pines?” cried 
Marjory. 

“She’s another little granddaughter,” said 
Granny. 

“Granny’s confused this morning, Mar- 
garet,” said Grandma Beach. 

“She got over-tired, yesterday, and it’s 
upset her. Of course she knows she’s only 
one granddaughter.” 

“But she has,” cried Marjory, getting 
close to Grandma Beach, so she would surely 
hear , right. “I’ve always tried to tell you 
that. Grandma. And she’s come — Lissy’s 
come.” 

“Who is Lissy?” Grandma Beach 
166 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


dropped her knitting. ‘‘And where has 
she come from? What do you mean, 
child?” 

“Lissy came from The Penny Bank yester- 
day,” said Marjory. “And she started to 
walk here from Ridgewood, and Granny 
met her, and they both found me.” 

“But why was she coming here?^^ de- 
manded Grandma Beach. 

“She’s our little granddaughter, Mar- 
garet,” said Granny. “One we didn’t know 
we had — just as I told you.” 

“She was coming to visit — us,” cried 
Marjory at the same minute. 

Grandma Beach stared at Marjory. It 
was quite clear, now, that she’d never known 
there was a Lissy till this minute. And 
that she didn’t at all understand and wasn’t 
too well pleased, now. 

Just at this minute, in from the kitchen 
167 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

bustled Celia. She had a letter in her hand. 
And downstairs, pink-cheeked, and beam- 
ing good will to every one, came Lissy, 
herself. 

“What does this all mean?” said 
Grandma Beach. “Celia, if you know, will 
you have the goodness to explain. I un- 
derstood you to say, last night, that this child 
came from The Pines to help in the search 
for Margaret.” 

“I did think so,” said Celia. “I asked her 
if her folks knew where she was, and she 
said, ‘Why, of course.’ So, I just tucked 
her up with Marjory, and ’phoned Mr. 
Spicer to tell her folks, whoever they were, 
not to worry about her. But it seems — ” 
Celia hesitated and glanced down at the 
letter in her hand. 

“What does it mean?” said Grandma 
Beach again. 


168 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


“It means,” cried Lissy, laughing and run- 
ning straight to Grandma, “that I’m your 
oldest granddaughter, Grandma Beach.” 

“Margaret’s oldest child was a boy,” said 
Grandma Beach. Her face was white. 

“That’s John,” said Lissy. She spoke 
out loud and clear so Grandma Beach 
would be sure to hear everything right this 
time. “Then I came next. I’m the one 
you sent for. Grandma Beach. I’m 
Melissa Maud Penny.” 

“Then who is Margaret?” cried 
Grandma Beach. Half unconsciously, 
maybe, she reached out for Marjory, and 
held fast to her. 

“I’m your next granddaughter,” cried 
Marjory, down on her knees beside 
Grandma Beach. “I’m just exactly as 
much your granddaughter as Lissy is.” 

“She’s the other one,” shouted Lissy. 

169 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Grandma Beach stared from one of her 
granddaughters to the other. 

^‘There wasn’t — another one,” she said 
slowly. 

“Oh, yes, there was,” said Marjory. 
“There was me.” Marjory was too excited 
to remember where to use “I” and where to 
use “me.” “Our mother didn’t have time to 
tell you about me, because she died just as 
soon as I came. And Papa Penny didn’t 
tell you about me, because he gave me away 
to a Mr. Brook — that’s my Daddy, you 
know — and wasn’t to tell any one. We 
didn’t any of us know anything about that 

n 

till last year — except John and , Aunt 
Melissa. But, you see, Lissy’s mother was 
my mother, so Pm really your granddaugh- 
ter just as much as she is.” 

Right here. Granny began talking, too. 
Aunt Eunice, vexed because she couldn’t 
170 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


hear a word, began asking some one to ex- 
plain it all to her. Celia took matters into 
her own hands. 

“IVe a letter here,” she said, ^‘from Mr. 
Peter Penny. It should have come yester- 
day before Miss Lissy did. But it didn’t 
for some reason. The children have told 
you everything just as it is. But I’ll read 
it.” 

It was a long, long letter, telling every- 
thing that Marjory and Lissy already knew, 
and some things they didn’t. It told all 
about Marjory’s plan, and how the two fath- 
ers had decided to let it work out for it- 
self. Celia left out one sentence toward the 
end. It said, “When the Grandmas find 
they have two granddaughters instead of 
one. I’m sure they’ll be twice as happy.” 
Celia wasn’t just sure about this, yet. 

When the letter was read. Grandma 
171 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Beach gathered up her knitting, and went 
into the house without a word for either 
granddaughter. Celia sent Marjory up- 
stairs to get dressed, and Lissy to help her. 
Then she read the letter again into Aunt 
Eunice’s ear-trumpet. Granny kept chuck- 
ling away to herself, ^‘Two granddaughters 
instead of one.” She was twice as happy, 
Celia thought. 

^‘Maybe she’ll send me straight back 
home,” said Lissy soberly, as the two little 
girls went upstairs. ^‘She doesn’t like two 
granddaughters, Margie.” 

^‘No one could help liking you for 
a granddaughter, Lissy,” cried Marjory. 
“You’re a much nicer one than I am. And, 
oh, Lissy, it’s going to be just splendid hav- 
ing you here!” 

“Maybe I sha’n’t stay,” said Lissy. 

Dinner was a strange silent meal. Aunt 
172 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


Eunice smiled timidly at her new little 
grand-niece. Granny beamed at both 
her great granddaughters. But Grandma 
Beach was stiffer and straighter than Mar- 
jory had ever seen her. Lissy and Marjory 
couldn’t help smiling at each other, now and 
then, across the silent table. It was nice be- 
ing together again even in a House of 
Grandmothers where there was room for 
only one granddaughter. 

“Maybe she’ll like me after a little,” said 
Lissy anxiously, as the two little girls went, 
arm in arm, to the willow-nest. “She’s got 
to, that’s all, Margie. And she’s got to like 
my father, too.” 

“She will,” said Margie easily. “When 
she’s queer, Celia says it’s just her way. 
Celia knows all about her, Lissy.” 

That night, when the two little girls were 
going to bed, and Marjory reached up her 
173 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

cheek for Grandma’s kiss, Lissy put hers 
up, too. 

“Good night, Melissa,” said Grandma 
Beach. Then quite suddenly she added, 

“When I wrote and asked you to come to 
us, Melissa, why didn’t you come?” 

“I didn’t want to,” said Lissy. “Oh, 
that sounds dreadfully impolite; Grandma. 
But — I didn’t. And Margie did.” 

“But why didn’t you want to come, 
Melissa?” said Grandma Beach. 

Poor Lissy. She looked at Marjory 
standing between Granny and Aunt Eunice, 
with Celia in the background. Then she 
looked up at Grandma Beach. 

“Must I tell you?” she said almost in 
tears. 

“I made her,” cried Marjory, trying to 
help. “I didn’t think you’d care which one 
you had. Neither did Daddy nor Papa 
174 


TWO LITTLE GRANDDAUGHTERS 


Penny. And I tried to tell you, but I 
couldn’t. And Celia said it didn’t mat- 
ter.” 

^ Why didn’t you want to come, Melissa?” 
said Grandma. She paid no attention to 
Marjory. 

Lissy’s cheeks were red. But her honest 
gray eyes met Grandma’s squarely. 

“Because you didn’t — like my father!” 
she cried. 

“What made you say that?” cried Mar- 
jory, when the two little girls were safe in 
their own room. 

“It was the truth,” cried Lissy. “And 
Grandma made me say it. Oh, dear, Mar- 
gie, I don’t believe I can stay here, even if 
father does want me to.” 

“Wait a little. Miss Melissa,” said Celia, 
who had just come in to see if the children 
were all right. “I guess you pleased 
175 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Grandma Beach answering her just the way 
you did. It was just exactly what she 
would have done herself. Just wait a lit- 
tle, and forget all about it.” 


176 


CHAPTER XI 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

B reakfast, next morning, was 
like many others Marjory had 
known. After the usual good 
mornings. Grandma read the paper into 
Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet and they both 
talked over the news. Granny chuckled to 
herself every few minutes. She couldn’t 
have been chuckling over the news which 
was anything but good. By the way she 
twinkled her eyes at them, both little girls 
knew she was laughing because she had two 
little great-granddaughters instead of one. 

“My, but it’s quiet eating that way,” said 
Lissy, as the little girls went out on the 
sunny porch after breakfast. “What would 
177 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

the Grandmas say to one of the Penny meals 
— boys all talking at once, and Trixy gig- 
gling?’’ 

^‘We’ll go down by the willow,” said 
Marjory. ^‘We can make all the noise we 
want to there, and maybe Roger will come 
over.” 

Marjory ran to get the red cushions. 
When she came back, she couldn’t find 
Lissy anywhere. But from the kitchen, 
came the sound of splashing dish-water and 
a gay little voice. Marjory ran through the 
dining-room and opened the door. Lissy 
had on Celia’s gingham apron and was 
washing dishes. 

^‘You wipe them, Margie,” she cried, as 
Marjory appeared. “Then Celia can go 
right to her jellying.” 

Marjory caught up a wiping-towel. 

“It’s ’most as good as The Penny Bank,” 
178 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

she cried, beginning on the silver. ^Why 
didn’t I think to help Celia before?” 

“I can’t feel at home, somehow, without 
my dishes to wash,” laughed Lissy. “But 
aren’t these the loveliest dishes, Margie?” 

After the dishes were done, Lissy sug- 
gested that, as Celia was still jellying, they 
make their own bed. Then they ran up 
to make Granny’s for her. Then they went 
out into the garden and picked raspberries 
for dinner. 

In a week, Lissy was almost as busy in 
The House of the Grandmothers as she al- 
ways was in The Penny Bank. Besides 
rides with, Molly, visits to Good Times 
Camp, boat-rides with Wesley, plenty of 
play under the old willow, and wonderful 
hours in Granny’s room, she found time to 
wash dishes, sweep kitchen and porches, dust 
two or three rooms, and make beds. She 
179 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

held Grandma’s wool. She sorted beads for 
Aunt Eunice. She read to Granny. She 
helped bring in fruit and vegetables from 
the garden. She learned to harness Molly 
all by herself. She fed her and groomed 
her. No wonder she couldn’t find time to 
get lonesome. 

When she worked about the house, al- 
most always she sang in a clear high voice. 
Sometimes it was one of the songs Miss 
Doris had taught her in the little school- 
house at Brookside. Sometimes it was a 
victrola selection. Sometimes it was one 
of Aunt Melissa’s hymns. Whatever it was, 
her work was done in time to it. 

“Hurry the dishes this morning,” said 
Marjory one day when Lissy had been 
a granddaughter more than a week. 
“Grandma says we may go over to The 
Pines.” 


180 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

^‘Well/’ said Lissy, while the hot water 
splashed from faucet to pan, “don’t let me 
get started on a hymn, then. We’ll never 
get through if I do.” 

“Try the fastest piece you know,” laughed 
Marjory, jigging about the room with the 
wiping-towel. 

Lissy started in with the dishes and 
“Yankee Doodle.” She splashed and piped 
shrilly. Marjory hummed softly and kept 
time with one slippered foot. Suddenly 
the door opened, and Grandma Beach came 
in. 

“Can’t you work without singing, 
Melissa?” she asked. 

“Not so well,” said Lissy. “Does it dis- 
turb you. Grandma?” 

“You’re much noisier than Margaret,” 
said Grandma. 

Grandma went back to her knitting. 

181 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Lissy finished the dishes soberly and slowly. 
Her cheeks burned. 

^‘It’s a good thing you came first, Mar- 
gie,” she said, as the two little girls started 
out for The Pines. “I am afraid that I 
don’t please Grandma half so well as you 
do.” 

“Oh, yes, you do,” cried Marjory. She 
slipped one arm around Lissy. “That’s 
just Grandma’s way. She likes you just as 
well as she does me.” 

“She doesn’t,” said Lissy soberly, “and 
Roger doesn’t either.” 

“Nobody could, like me better,” cried 
Marjory. 

“Oh, yes, they could,” said Lissy, “and 
they do. I don’t wonder, Margie,” she 
added happily. “I like you better, my- 
self.” 

“Do you?” cried Marjory, surprised. 

182 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

^Why, I like you ever so much better, 
Lissy.” 

They both laughed at this, and forgot 
about the Grandmas and Roger. Arm 
in arm, they went along the little street. 
Suddenly, across the bridge dashed 
a great red car. It flew along the 
road, overtaking and passing them all in a 
breath. It seemed full of bright colors 
and faces. All at once, it became, too, a 
mass of waving hands and excited barks 
and yelps. 

“Why, they’re stopping,” cried Lissy. 
“Who is it?” 

As soon as it could, the red car came to a 
stop. From one side sprang a tall, hand- 
some boy. From the other a grown-up 
girl. Both came running back, and with 
them, getting in their way at nearly every 
steps, was a fine old dog. 

183 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


“Why, Nancy Spindle!” cried Lissy, run- 
ning, herself. 

“And Joe and Fritz,” cried Margie, keep- 
ing up. 

Such a load as the Crimson Rambler 
held. There were Uncle Ben Baker, 
Nancy Spindle, Joel Bernard, Betty Blake, 
the Martie Twins, and Fritz. They had 
come all the, way from White Birch Camp, 
Joe said, as they hurried back. And they 
were going to stay a week, or so, at The 
Pines. Reaching and pulling and boosting, 
in a minute, Marjory and Lissy were packed 
into the car with the others; every one 
was talking, including Fritz, who, when 
he got excited never could remember that 
he was old, now, and should be digni- 
fied. 

When they drew up at The Pines, and 
began to unload themselves and their bag- 
184 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

gage, it didn’t look as if even the big hotel 
could find room for them all. 

Almost at once, Marjory ran to find 
Roger. He sat all by himself in his shady 
corner of the porch. His drawing book 
lay beside him. 

^‘They’ll spoil all our good times,” he 
said, sulkily, when Marjory told him who 
had come. And he quite refused to come 
and meet the new little folks. 

‘‘Oh, do come, Roger,” pleaded Mar- 
jory. 

“You can stay with me,” he said. 

“I can’t now,” said Marjory. “You see, 
they’re my friends, and I haven’t seen them 
in ever so long. It wouldn’t be polite to 
leave them, Roger.” 

“I’m not coming,” said Roger firmly. 

“I’m sorry,” said Marjory. She didn’t 
want to leave Roger all alone away from 
185 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

the good times. But she couldn’t stay with 
him. 

All that lovely afternoon, while the little 
folks visited the swings, the croquet ground, 
the tennis-court, and the boat-houses down 
by the river, Roger sat by himself — a 
gloomy little figure. 

Lissy was so upset that twice she stole 
away and went to see if she couldn’t coax 
him to join them. 

“He says to let him alone,” she said the 
last time she came back, as she met Uncle 
Ben and the children all coming to rest on 
the porch. 

“What makes him so cross, Margie?” 

“Roger’s really a very nice boy,” said 
Marjory loyally. 

“Poor little chap,” said Uncle Ben. He 
half smiled at the hunched-up little figure. 
“Guess he doesn’t know what a great bunch 
186 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

of fun this is that I carry about with me in 
the Crimson Rambler.” 

wish he would come over here,” said 
Betty. “He looks so uncomfy.” 

“He doesn’t like noise,” said Marjory. 

“Like the Grandmas,” said Lissy. “But 
I never knew a boy before who didn’t like 
noise.” 

“Nor I,” chuckled Nancy Spindle. 

“Oh, yes, Nancy, you did — once,” said 
Martin, the boy-twin. “I didn’t, when I 
was little; don’t you remember?” 

“No one would believe it now, Martie,” 
said Nancy. 

“Maybe he isn’t well,” said Betty. She 
couldn’t keep her eyes off the forlorn little 
figure. 

“He looks well from this distance,” said 
Joe. “I think he’s jealous of our taking 
Margie away from him.” 

187 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


Fritz had been listening soberly, his great 
eyes going from one to another of the chil- 
dren. Now, he took matters into his own 
hands just as he had often done for one or 
another of them. He rose, stretched, then 
walked slowly across the porch to the small 
boy in the great chair. 

He thrust a curious nose into Roger’s 
limp hand. Roger’s other hand came down 
quickly from his eyes. 

^^You old beauty,” he cried. “Who are 
you?” 

Fritz wagged his tail in friendly fash- 
ion. Then he offered his paw. He looked 
back soberly to Uncle Ben’s bunch of 
little folks. As plainly as a dog could, he 
said, 

“Better come join us.” 

A minute later, into the surprised group 
about the steps came Fritz and Roger. 

188 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 

Roger’s hand was slipped through Fritz’s 
collar. 

^‘Is he your dog?” he asked Uncle Ben. 

^^Not altogether,” said Uncle Ben, patting 
Fritz’s head. “But sometimes he makes be- 
lieve he is.” 

“Yours?” Roger turned to Martin. 

“Wish he was,” said Martin, shaking his 
head. 

“He belongs to Joe, Roger,” said Betty. 
Her little hand on Fritz’s collar touched 
Roger’s hand gently. And she smiled into 
his strange dark blue eyes. “Where’s Joe, 
Fritz?” she said to the dog. 

Fritz scampered straight to the tall, 
laughing boy on the top step. 

“He’s mine, all right,” said Joe. 

^ Would you sell him?” cried Roger. 

“Sell— Fritz?” said Joe. “Well, I 
couldn’t do that, you know. You couldn’t, 
189 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

yourself, if he was yours and you’d had 
him almost as long as you could remember, 
could you?” 

^^I’d never sell him if he was mine,” said 
Roger. “I’ve always wanted a dog.” 

“Help yourself to him while we’re here,” 
said Joe, good-naturedly. “He’s taken a 
liking to you — that’s easy to see.” 

Next minute, Roger found himself in the 
middle of that noisy bunch. Fritz was on 
one side. Uncle Ben on the other. Just be- 
low sat Marjory next to Betty. Roger 
didn’t think, in all his life, he’d ever seen 
anything quite so lovely as Betty — all of her 
from her topmost shining curl to the toes 
of her stout little woods boots. Silent and 
smiling to herself, she sat in the midst of 
all the noisy chatter. 

“Well, Betty, out with it,” teased Joe 
from the railing of the porch. 

190 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 


was thinking,” said Betty. ^^And as 
usual, Joel Bernard, my thoughts were 
worth while. First I was thinking about 
you and how you’d been a circus boy. And 
about Marjory and how she’s been a circus 
girl. And about Fritz and how he’s been 
a circus dog. And I wondered, now that 
we’re all together, if we couldn’t have a 
circus.” 

Betty’s voice was lost in the shout that 
went up. Roger forgot he didn’t like noise. 
He shouted with the rest. Nancy was so 
excited that her eyes fairly snapped in her 
funny little face. 

^‘I’ll make Fritz do some of his tricks,” 
said Joe. “He’s lost some of his pep, but 
he’s a pretty good sport yet, aren’t you, old 
chappy?” 

Fritz, catching the spirit of the thing, 
stood on his head with joy. He barked and 
J91 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


capered and upset a chair, and Mr. Spicer 
came rushing to the door of the office to see 
what was the matter. Joe had to make 
Fritz go and lie down. 

“I’ll dance if you want me to,” offered 
Marjory shyly. 

Every one clapped their hands at that. 

“I can’t do fancy things,” said Lissy, 
“But I’ll make some of Aunt Melissa’s 
gingerbread and sell that. There are al- 
ways things to sell at circuses.” 

“I’ll have a lemonade stand,” said 
Martin. “I’m not fancy either, Lissy.” 

“What can I do?” cried Martha, his twin. 
“Can’t we do something together, Martie?” 

“You can be the fat lady,” teased Joe. 

“I will, ” said Martha accommodatingly. 
“I am fat, you see,” she explained to Mar- 
jory and Roger. 

“I’d like to be a clown the best of any- 
192 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 


thing,” said Nancy Spindle soberly. ‘‘But 
I suppose I’ll have to be The Queen of 
Hearts or something nice and ladylike like 
that.” 

“Uncle Ben is appointed manager,” said 
Betty. “Now, that arranges for every one 
but you and me, Roger.” 

“I can’t do anything,” said Roger. 

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Uncle Ben. 
“Look up some animals for the menagerie. 
Fritz is one of the performers and that’s 
quite enough for him.” 

“You can have some of our cats,” said 
Marjory. “There’s quite a family of all- 
gray kittens in the barn.” 

“All right,” said Roger. “And maybe I 
can find a goat or something.” 

“If I had something to ride,” mused 
Betty, “I’d be the equestrienne lady. We 
really do need one. Remember dear little 
193 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Gypsy, Joe, and how I used to ride her?” 

“If Molly will do,” said Marjory, 
just sure Susy would love to have you ride 
her.” 

When Betty had heard all about Molly, 
she was quite sure she’d make a fine steed for 
the equestrienne lady. 

“Won’t it be fun?” cried Martha. She 
hopped up and down till Joe begged her to 
stop, lest she lose some of the precious fat 
of the fat lady. 

“Where shall we have it?” asked Martin. 

“Mr. Spicer says we can have it here in 
the yard,” said Nancy, bustling back from 
a talk with Mr. Spicer. “He says all the 
summer folks will want to come to it any- 
way.” 

“The Willows would be Jovely,” said 
Lissy. “But the Grandmas would never 
let us have it there. Margie,” she cried 
194 


THE CRIMSON ^RAMBLER 

suddenly, they even let us .take part? 

The Grandmas are so particular,” she ex- 
plained to the others. 

^‘Granny will,” said Marjory happily. 
“Granny isn’t particular.” 

Sometime later, when two breathless lit- 
tle granddaughters poured out the whole 
plan and begged to take part in the circus. 
Granny answered every one of Grandma’s 
objections. 

“If Ben Baker’s children can take part, I 
guess our little grand-girls can,” she said. 

“A circus!” said Grandma. “I never did 
such a thing in my life, and you know it. 
Mother.” 

“You ran away once to go to one, if I 
remember rightly,” said Granny. “And 
got spanked for it afterward with my slip- 
per.” 

Lissy and Marjory tried not to laugh. 

195 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

But it did seem funny to think of Grandma’s 
running away to anything — and funnier yet 
to think of her getting a spanking, especially 
with Granny’s bit of a slipper. 

^‘I’ll help you dress up,” said Granny, 
quite as if everything was decided. “There 
are costumes in the chests just right for cir- 
cus-performers to wear.” 

“May I dance. Grandma?” said Mar- 
jory. 

“Can you dance, Margaret?” asked 
Grandma. 

“She dances beau-ti-ful-ly,” cried Lissy. 
“She can be a fairy or a humming-bird, or 
most anything. Grandma.” 

“Why did you never tell me this before?” 
said Grandma. 

“I didn’t think about it,” said Marjory. 

“Dance for me,” said Grandma Beach, 
quite unexpectedly. 


196 


THE CRIMSON RAMBLER 


Marjory lifted her arms, poised on the 
tips of her toes, and almost at once, she be- 
came a bright butterfly skimming up and 
down the old porch, pausing now and then 
above a make-believe flower. 

Grandma’s eyes never left the small fly- 
ing figure. Her face softened strangely. 
When Marjory stopped, breathless, she 
said, 

“Did you know your mother danced, 
Margaret?” 

“Granny said so,” said Marjory. 

“On this same porch, up and down this 
very lawn, many and many a time,” said 
Grandma gently. Her voice was all at 
once the voice of the story-book grand- 
mother Marjory loved. Lissy, too, caught 
its new tenderness. 

“I can’t do pretty things like Marjory,” 
she said briskly. “So, Grandma, please 
197 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

may I make some gingerbread to sell at the 
circus?” 

^‘Can you make gingerbread?” asked 
Grandma. 

‘‘Father says it’s ’most as good as Aunt 
Melissa’s,” said Lissy, “but, of course, it 
isn’t really. It tastes good to him because 
I make it.” 

“Lissy can cook and bake and do every- 
thing like that,” said Marjory. 

“I used to when I was her age,” said 
Grandma. “But your mother couldn’t. 
Ask Celia to give you the little tins I used 
to bake in, Melissa,” she added. 

“Oh, Grandma Beach,” cried Lissy, “I 
do think you are splendid.” 

Granny chuckled to herself. As they all 
went in to supper, she said, 

“Two little granddaughters will make a 
real Grandma out of you yet, Margaret!” 

198 


CHAPTER XII 


THE CIRCUS 


N ^EXT morning, soon after break- 
fast, Joe arrived at The Wil- 
lows. With him, at the end of 
his leash, was Fritz. He looked like a 
boat with the wind all taken out of its sails. 
He hung his head. His tail drooped be- 
tween his legs. 

“He’s in disgrace,” said Joe after Mar- 
jory and Lissy had introduced him to the 
Grandmas. “He made so much noise, last 
night, Mr. Spicer says he can’t stay another 
at the hotel. He thought perhaps you’d let 
him sleep here.” 

Grandma Beach didn’t like dogs. Aunt 
Eunice shivered at sight of one. But 
199 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


Granny already had Fritz at her side, tell- 
ing him what a fine old fellow he was. 

‘‘Of course, he may stay here,” she an- 
swered Joe. “Fd like to keep him always.” 

From that minute, Fritz took up his 
abode at The House of the Grandmothers. 
He followed Granny about like a shadow. 
Grandma Beach forgot she didn’t like dogs, 
and Aunt Eunice stopped shivering to laugh 
at his funny tricks. Every one on the place 
fell in love with him except the gray 
mother-cat. Pussy Willow. She moved 
her family to the highest loft of the barn, 
and set up housekeeping there out of his 
reach. 

The circus was to be held on Tuesday. 
The morning before, the girls were all busy 
on the front porch making costumes. The 
Grandmas were helping. Roger and Mar- 
tin were out placarding the town. Roger 
200 


THE CIRCUS 


had made some really good posters. The 
one of Fritz was so life-like Lissy said, 
^^He’d know himself, if he saw it.” Joe 
had taken Fritz to The Pines to put him 
through his tricks. Fritz had gone away 
sulkily. He wanted to stay at The House 
of the Grandmothers. 

Suddenly to the little workers on the 
porch came the thud of flying feet. 
Around the corner, up the steps, into their 
midst, bounded the dog. He flew to 
Granny and crouched down beside her. 
The next minute Joe arrived, out of breath 
and patience, as well. 

“I can’t do one thing with him,” he said, 
disgustedly. He dropped down on a pile 
of gay costumes and fanned himself with a 
big poster which, later, was to go up on 
the gate of The Willows. ^‘He won’t do a 
single trick at The Pines. He just turns 
201 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

tail and runs for here. I chased after him 
and brought him back there three times. 
He’ll never do a single trick there. He’ll 
spoil the whole circus.” 

“Let him practic^' here,” said Nancy. 

“Yes, and then have him insist upon doing 
his stunts here to-morrow,” said Joe. “I 
know Fritz! Look at him,” he added, 
laughing in spite of himself. “He knows 
every word I say.” 

Fritz was sitting up stiff and straight in 
front of Grandma Beach, his naughty head 
on one side, and his paw held out. 

“He’s asking to have the circus here,” 
said Joe. 

Betty looked out across the smooth sweep 
of green grass to the old willow and the 
river sparkling beyond. 

“I don’t wonder,” she said softly. “It 
would be beautiful here.” 

202 


THE CIRCUS 

Lissy and Marjory looked at each other. 
Then they looked at Grandma Beach. 
She didn’t seem to have heard a word. But 
she held out her hand io Fritz. 

“Could we?” began Marjory, at the same 
minute Lissy said, “Couldn’t we?” 

“What?” asked Grandma. She stared 
from one to the other of her small eager 
granddaughters. 

“Have the circus on our lawn?” they cried 
together. 

“I was just wondering why you didn’t,” 
said Grandma Beach. “It would be a good 
place.” 

Such a shout as went up from the old 
porch. Fritz lost his head completely, and 
began going through his tricks at once. 

“It was because Joe and Betty both 
wanted it,” said Lissy afterward to Mar- 
jory. 


203 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

think it was Fritz,” said Marjory. 

It was neither Betty nor Joe nor Fritz. 
It was the memory of a little figure that 
once, long ago, had flitted like a sun- 
beam through Grandma’s life. It was 
the thought of another little figure, so like 
the first, that was slowly bringing back 
sunshine and song to the grim old 
house. 

At one o’clock, next day, the parade 
started out from The Willows. At its 
head was the band. It was Martin with an 
old accordeon Marjory had found among 
Granny’s things. Martin had never played 
an accordeon before, but, as Uncle Ben 
said, that made the music more like real 
circus music. 

Back of Martin, on Molly, came Betty. 
She wore a skirt of crimson satin. Over 
her dainty white blouse, she had slipped a 
204 





yy 


THE PARADE STARTED OUT FROM THE WILLOWS 



THE CIRCUS 


little blue coat spangled with silver. She 
wore a crimson tarn on her head. Molly 
didn’t just like the skirt. But she did like 
Betty. She kept turning her curious little 
head to look at her. Sometimes, to get a 
better view, she stopped short. You 
couldn’t blame her. But her sudden stops 
did somewhat annoy Roger. Roger had the 
calf in charge which he had borrowed from 
the hotel farm. The calf didn’t like pa- 
rades and pulled back while Roger pulled 
ahead. Behind Roger, marched Lissy and 
Marjory. They carried a big basket made 
comfy with red cushions. In this, rode 
Pussy Willow and her family. Pussy Wil- 
low was troubled. Her half grown kittens 
seemed fond of circus life and anxious to 
become trapeze performers. They climbed 
to the top of the basket, sometimes several 
of them at once. So far, when they 
205 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

sprawled back, they sprawled into the 
basket, not out of it. 

Behind the kittens, came Martha. It had 
been decided by the whole troupe that she, 
being the Fat Lady, should ride. At first, 
no fit conveyance could be found. At last, 
Roger had discovered a goat. The goat 
had been hitched to a cart. And in this 
cart rode Martha. She was gorgeous in 
yellow satin borrowed from Granny. Her 
turnout was advertised as “The Lady and 
the Tiger.” The Tiger rode beside her 
in a large cage that had once been the home 
of a parrot. He was only the hotel cat, 
but he looked almost fierce enough for his 
part. He liked neither the gray mother- 
cat ahead of him, nor Fritz, who yelped and 
barked close behind. No wonder, Martha, 
who also managed the goat, looked as anx- 
ious as Pussy Willow herself. 

206 


THE CIRCUS 

Joe, last in the procession, with the per- 
forming dog, didn’t have an easy time. 
Fritz could see the tempting kittens crawl- 
ing up the basket. And he could hear the 
growls of the Royal Bengal Tiger. 

Nancy was the daintiest, most lady-like 
clown any circus had ever known. She 
wore a full skirted gown with red hearts 
sewed on it. She had a funny mask. She 
nipped here, there, and everywhere, trying 
to keep on Granny’s high-heeled red slip- 
pers which were too small for her. 

To the music of the accordeon, amid the 
applause of the bystanders, the parade 
passed down the one street of Glenmore 
from The Willows to The Pines. The 
calf balked, the tiger arched his back and 
spit and growled. Pussy Willow was three 
times her usual size, Fritz kept Joe on the 
But, on the whole, it was a triumphal 
207 


run. 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

progress. It went around the hotel, and 
came back into the road, headed, now, to- 
ward The Willows. Then it was that un- 
expected things happened. 

They began with the smallest of the Pussy 
Willow family. Somehow, in an un- 
watched second, he managed to miss be- 
ing pulled or pushed back into the basket. 
He reached the top, poised perilously 
on its edge, and pitched over into the 
road. 

He might have been a bomb. Like a 
flash, Fritz strained to the end of his stout 
leash. The calf gave a great sprawling 
leap, lunged against Molly, who promptly 
kicked up her heels and ran. Tiger 
plunged violently forward and went, cage 
and all, into the dust of the road. He tore 
and scratched until the door of his cage 
came open, and he was only a dark streak 
208 


THE CIRCUS 

across the distance. The goat turned him- 
self, the cart, and the Fat Lady around, and 
started back toward his home on the moun- 
tainside. 

For awhile there was great confusion. 
The clown and the band forgot their parts 
and started in hot pursuit of the Fat Lady. 
But the sight of Pussy Willow and her 
small kitten, both with bristling backs and 
arching tails, so discouraged Fritz that he 
slunk to the rear of the procession. Roger 
clung fast to the calf, and he soon quieted 
down. Betty came galloping back on 
Molly, her cheeks all roses and dimples. 
Some one at the hotel stopped the goat and 
with the help of the Clown and the Band, 
he was returned to his rightful place. 
Tiger couldn’t be found. But the rest of 
the procession hurried on to The Willows. 
And every one in Glenmore, who could pos- 
209 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

sibly get off, followed to attend the per- 
formance. 

While the gingerbread and lemonade 
stand was being made ready, the circus- 
goers had a chance to look at the menagerie. 
Roger had it in charge. The goat, tied to 
a tree, had already begun eating up the 
lawn. The calf helped. Pussy Willow 
gathered her family about her and they all 
went to sleep on the red cushions. Fritz, 
worn out, also took a nap. Molly was fed 
so much sugar it was a wonder she wasn’t 
sick. The Fat Lady, in a cage made of 
wire screens, fanned herself and mourned 
because the Tiger was lost. At the last 
minute, however, he was returned, full of 
dust and briers, by one of the summer 
children, and took his seat beside the Fat 
L.ady. 

The performance began almost at once. 

210 


THE CIRCUS 

Nearly every seat was taken. Some of the 
summer people were on the porches with 
the Grandmas. Betty gave some exhibi- 
tions of fancy riding. As she wisely let 
Molly do just as she liked, that act was a 
great success. 

Roger came next with the calf. 

‘‘He won’t act,” he told his audience. 
“But you can see what a fine little fellow he 
is.” 

Then and there, the calf decided to act. 
He had never had any lessons, but he kicked 
up his heels and capered about and seemed 
trying to turn himself into a rocking-horse. 
For a while,. it seemed that he would be the 
only actor. But at last, amidst much laugh- 
ter and applause, Roger and Martin, with 
Joe’s help, got him ofif and tied to a tree. 

It was Pussy Willow’s turn next. Be- 
ing rudely awakened and asked to display 
211 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

her family, she took the first one in her 
mouth and ran off with him to the barn. 
Almost at once, she returned and went off 
again with the second. She would have 
taken the whole six, one after another, had 
it not been that Roger helped out by carry- 
ing the last four to the barn, himself, in the 
basket. 

Fritz was down next. But firmly and 
gravely, he refused to act at all. In vain, 
Joe coaxed, pleaded, and commanded. 

‘‘It’s no use,” he told his disappointed 
audience. “When he won’t he won’t — and 
that’s all there is to it.” 

So Marjory came on for her dance. She 
was a yellow butterfly hovering over the 
flowers. She was a yellow sunbeam on the 
river. She was a yellow-bird, her head on 
one side. Last of all, she became a yellow 
rose-petal drifting in the wind. The sum- 
212 


THE CIRCUS 

mer-folk cheered madly, and whispered to 
one another. Grandma Beach couldn’t 
hear the words, but she saw the smiles. 
And she nodded her head in pleasure. 

As for Granny, she left her seat in the 
audience and ran straight to Marjory’s side. 

‘We’ll show ’em how to dance,” she cried. 

Marjory laughed at Granny. Then she 
caught up her skirts and with her made the 
old-time courtesy. Back and forth, then, 
they went through the stately old measures 
of the dance of Granny’s girlhood. The 
cheering was louder than ever. They had 
to do it all over again. 

When Granny was tired, still the audi- 
ence couldn’t let Marjory go. Running to 
the barn, she caught up one of the kittens. 
With him cuddled on her shoulder, she 
piouretted about in a gay little jig as she had 
often done in the old days of the circus. 

213 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Then it was that Fritz changed his mind and 
decided to act. Yelping and jumping, he 
danced, too, round and round and round 
with Marjory and the kitten. 

As always the applause went to his head. 
And when Marjory, out of breath, sank 
down beside Betty, Fritz went straight on, 
doing all the old tricks he could remember. 
He rolled over, he begged, he prayed, he 
became a dead dog. At the end of all, he 
stood gravely wagging his tail, waiting for 
more applause. 

Next there was an exciting race between 
Martha in the goat-cart and Martin in the 
pony-cart. The goat stopped to eat grass, so 
it was won by Molly. This pleased the 
Fat Lady, for she was heard to remark to 
her twin, ^‘Oh, Martie, I was so afraid Fd 
win!” 

For the last thing, Betty had arranged a 
214 


THE CIRCUS 


dainty little tableau. It showed Granny 
sitting back of a great shoe made of brown 
paper. Gathered about her, were all the 
circus-performers and several small sum- 
mer children borrowed for the occasion. 
The audience agreed that there never had 
been and never could be a dearer “Little 
Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.” Fritz 
took part in this, too. He sat close to 
Granny, his bright eyes fixed upon the chil- 
dren, as if he would help her look after 
them. 

That wonderful afternoon ended with a 
picnic on the lawn. Some of the summer 
people, big and little, had planned it. 
With Celia’s help it was a great surprise to 
the circus troupe and a great success. 
Every one had just what he wanted to eat, 
from the calf who munched green apples 
and the goat who was found trying to eat 
215 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


one of Betty’s little boots, to Pussy Willow, 
who had a big saucer of milk. 

But the greatest surprise of that sur- 
prising day came when Joe counted up the 
gate, gingerbread, and lemonade money. It 
amounted to eleven whole dollars and seven- 
teen cents. 

^Whatever shall we do with it?” he 
cried. 

The circus troupe stared at him. Not 
one of them had once remembered that 
there would be real money from their per- 
formance. And eleven dollars and seven- 
teen cents ! 

‘‘It’s yours,” said Uncle Ben, laughing at 
the row of tired, anxious little faces sur- 
rounding him. “And I should say you’d 
earned it.” 

“Couldn’t we buy a summer-camp with 
it — up here somewhere?” suggested Mar- 
216 


THE CIRCUS 

tha. “Then we could come every summer.” 
“If we’d all chip in some,” laughed Joe. 
Then, to Marjory’s surprise, Roger spoke. 
“Pshaw,” he said. “You don’t need a 
camp up here. Anytime you want one 
there’s Good Times Camp. You can bor- 
row that, can’t they, Margie?” 


217 


CHAPTER XIII 


BLAZING A TRAIL 


r" "^HEN, of course, Marjory and 



Lissy and Roger had to tell all 
about Good Times Camp. It 


was decided at once that to-morrow, which 
was the last day the Crimson Rambler 
bunch would be at The Pines, must be spent 
at the play-house. 

“We’ll have lunch put up at the hotel,” 
said Betty to Nancy, “and stay all day.” 

As it turned out, they didn’t go at all. 
For when Marjory awoke next morning, it 
was to the steady splash of rain on the roof. 
And when the two little girls looked out of 
the window it was on a steady downpour 
which delighted the thirsty gardens and 


218 


BLAZING A TRAIL 


fields, but which wasn’t intended for pic- 
nics. 

“We’ll leave that for next summer,” said 
Joe, when Marjory and Lissy, in raincoats 
and caps, rushed up the steps of The Pines. 
The Crimson Rambler bunch was with 
Roger in his quiet hammock corner of the 
porch. It was cozy and shut-in there with 
the rain beating down outside. 

“I’m coming to see the Grandmas, too,” 
said Marjory. “I want to come every 
year, if Daddy will let me.” 

“So am I,” dimpled Lissy, “if the Grand- 
mas want me.” 

“I won’t be here,” said Roger gloomily. 

“We’ll see to that,” said Marjory. She 
was so used to having things turn out just 
as she wanted them to, it wasn’t strange she 
expected they always would. 

“There’s no telling,” said Roger, “what 
219 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Sally will take it into her head to do next 
summer. But wherever she goes, I’ll just 
have to tag along.” 

^‘Cheer up, old fellow,” said Joe. ^‘Next 
summer’s a long way off. Meanwhile, 
we’ve made you treasurer of the Crimson 
Rambler Circus Troupe. And here are the 
funds.” 

Joe dropped a small red candy box, heavy 
with small change, into Roger’s lap. 

“What shall we do with them?” asked 
Betty. 

“I know what I’d like to do with them.” 

Every one turned to look at Lissy. Her 
cheeks grew as red as the crimson ramblers 
themselves. 

“I’d like to send them to those poor little 
Belgian children,” she said. 

All the children grew sober. Each of 
them had read, or listened while some 
220 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

grown-up person read, in the papers of the 
terrible things that were happening in little 
Belgium this terrible August. 

^‘Oh, if we only could,” cried Nancy 
Spindle. ^‘It does seem to me, sometimes, 
I must go straight over there and bring back 
all those poor little babies.” 

“Why couldn’t we?” said Betty. 

“How could we?” said Marjory. 

“I don’t know, quite,” said Betty. “But 
there will be societies formed in New York 
for Belgian relief just as there are for every 
such thing. And Mother’s sure to be presi- 
dent or chairman or something of them — 
she always is. Why can’t we give her our 
money to use the very first chance that shows 
up?” 

“We can,” said Joe. “I say, it takes girls 
to think up things to do, doesn’t it, Uncle 
Ben?” He turned toward Uncle Ben who 
221 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

had just come up the steps. Uncle Ben 
didn’t mind country rain. He said it was 
different from city rain — not so wet, some 
way. 

“Fine, Betty,” said Uncle Ben, when he 
had heard the plan. 

“It was Lissy who started it,” said Betty. 

So Roger, as treasurer of the Crimson 
Rambler Circus Troupe, turned over its 
present funds to Betty. And Betty prom- 
ised to give them to her mother just as soon 
as she went back to New York. 

“Is England really in the war. Uncle 
Ben?” said Roger suddenly. He had been 
silent all through the talking and plan- 
ning. 

“Yes, my boy,” said Uncle Ben. 

“Dick will go, then,” said Roger. 

“Dick?” 

“Cousin Dick — my guardian,” said 
222 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

Roger. “We’re Canadians, you know,” he 
added proudly. 

All the bunch looked at Roger. It made 
the war seem a great deal nearer, some way, 
to think of some one you almost knew, go- 
ing into it. 

“The war isn’t going to last long, Roger, 
we all hope,” said Uncle Ben. “Perhaps it 
will all clear up before Canada has to send 
her troops.” 

“Is there war in England?” cried Mar- 
jory, 

Uncle Ben’s arms went around Mar- 
jory. 

“The war isn’t in England,” he said, “but 
England’s in the war. Why, Margie?” 

“Daddy’s there,” cried Marjory. 

“He’s in London,” said Uncle Ben. 
“Real war hasn’t touched London, yet, and 
we hope it never will. I wouldn’t worry 
223 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


about Daddy. He’s all right. Now, 
speaking of plans — ” 

Uncle Ben didn’t get one word further. 
The whole bunch shouted and fell upon 
him, every one trying to get the best place 
and make himself heard first. Roger and 
Lissy and Marjory looked on bewildered. 

^‘You don’t understand,” cried Nancy 
Spindle. She caught Marjory’s hands and 
went spinning with her up and down the 
porch. “But when Uncle Ben says ‘speak- 
ing of plans’ and twinkles up his eyes — 
so” — Nancy tried to twinkle up her own 
sharp little eyes like Uncle Ben’s — “we all 
know something perfectly splendid is go- 
ing to happen.” 

“Well,” said Uncle Ben, disentangling 
himself from several pairs of arms, “this is 
a perfectly splendid plan if I did make it 
all by myself without a bit of help from 
224 


BLAZING A TRAIL 


any of you. What would you say — you 
bunch — to inviting Miss Marjory Brook 
and Miss Lissy Penny — ” 

“To go back with us to White Birch 
Camp?” cried Martha, clapping her hands. 
“That’s it, isn’t it?” 

Uncle Ben nodded, and the bunch fell 
on him again. Roger stood quite by him- 
self. 

“Margie’s getting ready to ask me if the 
Grandmas will say ^yes,’ ” laughed Uncle 
Ben. “I know that puckery little twist to 
her mouth. They have said it. I’ve just 
come from there. I think Granny would 
like to go along, herself. Grandma Beach 
is at this minute thinking up all the 
DON’TS she’s going to pack up to send 
with us. I told her sister Judy and I are 
used to looking after young folks, and that 
we’ll do our best by you. But Grandma 
225 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

thinks you are very special young folks and 
must be looked after very specially.’^ 
Marjory’s mouth lost its puckers to 
whisper into Uncle Ben’s ear. 

‘‘It wasn’t that made me puckery, Uncle 
Ben. But — isn’t Roger to go, too?” 

“Roger?” cried Uncle Ben. “Of course, 
Roger’s going along. I want him to make 
pictures of my camp and my cow and my- 
self that will make us all famous.” 

“Honest, Uncle Ben?” cried Roger. 
Marjory had never seen the boy’s face so 
bright and eager. 

“Sally’ll let you,” she cried. 

“Oh, Sally won’t care,” said Roger. 
“But do you all really want me?” 

“Even to Fritz,” cried Betty. “Here he 
comes.” 

It was a wet, muddy Fritz who came 
stiffly up the steps. But he gamely held out 
226 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

his paw, rolled over, and fell asleep in the 
middle of the roll. 

^‘Oh, I hope it won’t rain,” said Martha, 
for the third time running to look at the 
clouds. 

“My weather eye sees a fair sunset,” said 
Uncle Ben. 

Uncle Ben’s weather eye saw just right. 
And next morning, when the Crimson Ram- 
bler rolled into The Willows to pick up 
Lissy and Marjory there wasn’t a cloud in 
all the sky. The little girls were tucked in 
between Nancy and Betty on the back seat. 
Martha was in one chair, and Roger in the 
other. Slim little Martin was in front with 
Uncle Ben and Joe. The space between the 
chairs was kept for Fritz. 

“He wasn’t here at all last night,” said 
Wesley. 

“He hasn’t run away in ever so long,” said 
227 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Joe. “I thought he’d settled down for 
good.” 

^‘We’ll keep him for you when he comes,” 
said Grandma Beach graciously. ‘^He is a 
most unusual dog. 

Betty laughed softly as they drove out of 
the yard and rumbled across the bridge. 

“Remember, Joe,” she said, “how dear 
Aunt Prudence used to say just that the first 
summer we had Fritz?” 

Joe nodded. 

“I hope he isn’t lost,” said Marjory. 

“Fritz can’t be lost in this country,” said 
Uncle Ben. “He’s at home everywhere.” 

Uncle Ben stopped a minute at a lawyer’s 
office in Ridgewood. 

“I found a strange thing,” he said, as he 
came back. “Out tramping the other day, 
I found that some one had been trespassing 
on private land beyond Glenmore. Fve 
228 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

just asked Phil Archer to look into it. 
Trespassing won’t do.” 

Uncle Ben seemed to know every one. 
He stopped to speak to this one and that 
one. He asked after children, animals, and 
crops. At a beautiful farm, where all the 
meadows were sweet with crimson clover, he 
stopped for a drink of some specially fine 
spring water. A jolly little woman gave 
each of them a delicious molasses cooky. 

^‘Hark,” said Joe in the middle of a big 
bite, ^fisn’t that Fritz?” 

^^The dog?” laughed the woman. “Is he 
yours really? We used to think once that 
he was ours. And he comes back often for 
a visit. He’s shut up in the barn so he 
wouldn’t follow Johnny to town.” 

As soon as the door was open, out bounded 
Fritz. He was in the car in a minute and 
ate all of Nancy’s cooky before any one 
229 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

could stop him. But at last he took his seat 
between Roger and Martha. Each one put 
a hand on his collar. 

^‘He won’t run away now,” said Joe. 
^‘He loves to motor.” 

^‘Just think of that beggar’s knowing all 
these farms,” said Uncle Ben. 

Every one began telling stories of Fritz 
and his strange adventures. He rolled his 
big bright eyes from one to another. If only 
he could have spoken, how many other stor- 
ies he might have told. How many other 
children, from his puppyhood to this min- 
ute, he had known and loved. In his funny 
dog-fashion how many pleasant things he 
had helped to bring about. He grew 
drowsy thinking of them all, and went sound 
asleep. 

They had lunch by the side of the road. 
Soon after, they crossed the river, which had 
230 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

been near enough to talk to them all the 
way, even when they couldn’t see it. Now, 
they were in a sandy country, where the hills 
rose higher and higher and still higher. 
The road began to wind steadily up, los- 
ing itself oftener and oftener in wooded 
places, until finally it cut right through the 
heart of the great green forest. At last, 
just at sunset, winding and winding and still 
climbing, it came out into an open space on 
the very tiptop of a mountain. Here was 
White Birch Camp. 

“Remember how we found Martin here 
once?” said Nancy to Joe. 

Even with a year and more of days of be- 
ing together again, Martha couldn’t bear 
to think of those days when she and Martin 
had been separated. She reached over to 
feel of his shoulder to be sure he was really 
there. And Martin reached up and 
231 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


squeezed her plump little hand to tell her 
he really was. But when every one had 
been unloaded from the car, the Martie 
Twins kept close together. 

Uncle Ben’s sister, Judy, and the little 
girls slept inside the camp. Uncle Ben and 
the boys sleeping on the porch. They were 
all up early and there were so many delight- 
ful things to do, it was hard to tell which 
to do first. 

“I move that we blaze a trail,” said Joe. 
“Uncle Ben wants a short one to the 
lake.” 

“Blaze away,” said Uncle Ben. “Judy 
and I will meet you at the lake at noon.” 

“Can we really build a fire right out in 
these woods?” asked Marjory. 

“Wesley won’t let us,” said Lissy. 

Such a shout as went up from the de- 
lighted bunch. 


232 


BLAZING A TRAIL 


“Blazing a trail isn’t burning a trail,” ex- 
plained Joe. 

“I know better than that,” said Roger. 

“Don’t you care, girls,” said Nancy. “It 
does sound just as if you burned something.” 

“What do you do?” asked Lissy. 

“You cut a new path through the 
woods,” said Joe. “We’ll take along axes 
and hatchets to clear away some of the un- 
derbrush.” 

“The blazing part,” said Betty, “is chip- 
ping or blazing a bit of bark off the trees 
that go along by the new trail. Then when 
you want to, you can find the trail again by 
looking at them.” 

Armed with hatchets and axes, the bunch 
plunged into the woods back of the camp. 

“Whoever sees the lake first and blazes 
the last tree on the trail to it, can name the 
trail,” said Nancy Spindle. 

233 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘‘It must be a good name,” said Joe, “be- 
cause these mountain names stick to things 
forever.” 

They went on slowly. Sometimes it 
seemed that they couldn’t find a way 
through. But always after a little they 
made one. Whenever a tree was blazed, a 
great shout went up. Fritz tore about mak- 
ing all sorts of unnecessary trips on errands 
of his own. Following him, as he plowed 
through some unusually thick underbrush, 
Lissy found herself alone on a pretty little 
knoll. Looking down, she saw a gleam of 
blue, as if a bit of the sky had dropped into 
the green. 

“Oh,” she cried, “what is that?” 

“The lake! The lake!” shouted the 
bunch, climbing the knoll. “Lissy’s found 
it! She must name it!” 

Lissy blazed the tall pine on the knoll. 

234 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

Then she dropped down to think. “I wish 
Betty’d found it,” she said. ^‘She always 
has such good names for everything. 
Really it ought to be named for Fritz, be- 
cause he brought me right here. But I 
don’t like ‘Fritz Trail’ and ‘Dog Trail’ 
won’t do either. Oh, I know^ — Runaway 
Trail. Isn’t that pretty?” 

Every one liked Lissy’s name at once. 
And the last bit of Runaway Trail was cov- 
ered by flying feet. 

Uncle Ben and Judy were already at the 
lake. They had come the long way around, 
bringing all sorts of things with them. 

“You won’t have to come that way 
again,” cried Martin, “Runaway Trail’s 
all ready.” 

After the best kind of a lunch, eaten out 
of baskets, every one helped put up a big 
tent. After that, they went out on the lake 
235 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

for a long row, one load after another in 
the pretty red boat. After the last load had 
come in, it was time to eat again. 

When it grew dark. Uncle Ben built a 
great bonfire. They all sat around and 
toasted marsh-mallows. And then, Lissy 
and Marjory found that they were going to 
camp right here on the shore of the lake. 
The little girls were stowed away on balsam 
boughs inside the tent. Its front flap was 
raised so it was almost like being out-of- 
doors. Outside, the boys and Uncle Ben 
stretched themselves out on blankets. The 
night was just full of soft stirrings and whis- 
perings. The stars twinkled and laughed. 
The great, kind, beautiful darkness came 
down and folded them away in dreams, safe 
and snug. And all in a twinkling — or so 
it seemed — the stars had scampered away 
and there was the sun, round and red, say- 
236 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

ing “Good morning” to them over the 
mountain-peaks. 

Joe and Roger and Martin went trout- 
fishing in a famous little stream. Judy took 
Marjory and Lissy out on the lake to try 
their luck. But Marjory caught her hook 
in a snag and they had to row round and 
round in one spot to get it loose. They all 
laughed so hard that the fish stayed in the 
darkest spots they could find. Not one of 
them got caught. And the girls gave up 
fishing and went water-lilying instead. 

There was plenty of trout for dinner 
though. Uncle Ben and Joe cooked them 
on the coals. And altogether too soon, it 
was time to go back to White Birch Camp. 

“And now in just a minute or two it will 
be morning again,” said Lissy, as she and 
Marjory cuddled down together in their lit- 
tle bunk that night. 


237 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

The Crimson Rambler was empty enough 
that next morning with just Uncle Ben and 
Roger in front and Lissy and Marjory in 
back. But there was a big basket of lunch, 
another of trout, and still another of water- 
lilies for the Grandmas. And they helped 
fill up. 

The whole bunch stood on the porch and 
waved good-by. ’Way down the mountain- 
side, the travelers could hear Fritz’s dis- 
gusted barks because he wasn’t one of the 
motoring party. 

^Tt’s lovely to go, but it’s lovely to get 
back,” said Marjory, as late that afternoon 
the House of the Grandmothers came in 
sight. Long rosy rays of sunset touched the 
river and the lawn. Grandma was on the 
steps with Aunt Eunice back of her. 

^‘We’ll do it all over again next sum- 
mer,” called back Uncle Ben, as he and 
238 


BLAZING A TRAIL 

Roger sped away toward The Pines where 
Uncle Ben would pass the night, leaving 
at sun-up. 

Grandma Beach kissed each little grand- 
daughter. 

^^You must be very quiet,” she said, 
^‘Granny is ill.” 


239 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE PEARL BOX 


H 


USH,” said Lissy to Marjory 
next morning. 


Marjory sat up straight to 
stare at Lissy. It was still very early. But 
Lissy was all dressed. And she had on her 
apron. 

^^Celia was up with Granny all night 
long/’ said Lissy. ‘‘I’m going to get break- 
fast. You come down and set the table.” 

It was a long, strange week that followed 
in The House of the Grandmothers. 
Granny was very ill. She wanted Celia 
with her all the time. Grandma Beach 
helped Celia take care of the little old lady 
all she could. Aunt Eunice cried and 
fretted. 


240 


THE PEARL BOX 

It was Lissy who got the meals. Of 
course, there wasn’t as much to eat as there 
was when Celia did it. But they were good. 
It was Lissy who took care of the parlors 
and made beds* and picked blackberries and 
ran on errands. Marjory helped all she 
could. She set tables and wiped dishes and 
dusted and sat with Aunt Eunice. But it 
was Lissy who took charge of things down 
stairs. And afterward, when Granny was 
so sick, that no one cared much about eat- 
ing, it was Lissy who slipped quietly into the 
•sick-room, and began to do little things for 
Granny. And soon. Granny wanted her 
there. 

Then one afternoon, when Granny 
seemed some better, and Celia and Grandma 
Beach were both lying down for a little 
while, Lissy and Marjory both sat in Gran- 
ny’s room while she slept. 

241 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“I’m about as much good to her,” said 
Marjory softly, looking at the tiny fig- 
ure in the big bed, “as those asters on the 
table.” 

“Granny likes the asters better than any- 
thing else in the room,” laughed Lissy. 

“I like fresh air, too,” said Granny’s 
weak voice quite unexpectedly. And turn- 
ing from the vase of asters, the little girls 
saw that Granny was awake and smiling at 
them much like her old self. “And that’s 
what you’ve been to me, Lissy.” 

“I’m so glad you feel better. Granny,” 
cried Lissy. She deftly patted a pillow into 
shape and raised Granny’s head a little. 
“Is that comfy? Now, you mustn’t talk, 
you know. But I’ll sit right here and mend 
my apron. If you want anything, you just 
whisper it.” 

Granny smiled from one little grand- 
242 


THE PEARL BOX 

daughter to the other. She closed her eyes 
and seemed to go back to sleep. 

Marjory curled up with her book in the 
window. Lissy sat in Granny’s rocker close 
to the bed and began to mend. She tried to 
do it just as Aunt Melissa had showed her. 
But it was hard work. Lissy didn’t like to 
sew. The thread knotted and knotted. 
Lissy pulled and pulled. Finally, she gave 
a sudden quick jerk. The knot didn’t come 
out, even then. But the little old wooden 
box in her lap, in which were her scissors 
and spools and extra needles, fell bottomside 
up to the floor, spilling out everything as it 
did so. 

As quietly as she could, Lissy got down 
on the floor and began to pick up the things. 
Marjory came to help. 

“Where did you get that box?” cried 
Granny. Turning, both little girls saw 
243 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Granny halfway up in bed, pointing to the 
little old wooden box in Lissy’s lap. 

“It’s an old one I’ve always had, Granny,” 
said Lissy soothingly. “I’m sorry I 
dropped it. Will you go back to sleep?” 

Lissy was at Granny’s side now. She put 
the box on the bed. She patted Granny’s 
hand in her best nurse fashion. 

“It’s the pearl-box!” cried Granny. 

“Oh, no, it isn’t. Granny,” said Lissy, as 
if she’d been speaking to a child. “It’s just 
an old wooden one that was mother’s, I 
guess.” 

“It’s the pearl-box,” said Granny again. 
She reached for Lissy’s box. 

“It’s just wood,” soothed Lissy. She put 
the box into the little wrinkled hand. 
“See, I bit off a corner when I was a baby. 
It isn’t pearl at all.” 

“It’s the pearl-box,” insisted Granny. 
244 


THE PEARL BOX 

Her cheeks were flushed. A lock of silvery 
hair escaped from her cap. 

Lissy gently tucked it back. 

“Where is the key?” said Granny. 

“There isn’t any,” said Lissy. “It opens 
without a key — see.” 

She opened the box. 

“Margie has it,” said Granny. 

“She thinks it is the pearl-box, Lissy,” 
said Marjory. “The one she wanted to give 
me my birthday — don’t you remember?” 

“It is the pearl-box!” cried Granny. 

“Oh, dear,” said Lissy hurriedly to 
Marjory. “She’s gone right out of her 
dear little head. You run get Celia, 
Margie.” 

Marjory started, but Granny called her 
back. 

“Give me the key,” she said. 

“Let her try it, Lissy,” said Marjory. 

245 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

She came back, slipping the little key on its 
silk cord over her head. She laid it in 
Granny’s hand. 

“Slip the key in the lock, Lissy,” said 
Granny. 

“It’s all unlocked now. Granny dear,” 
said Lissy. But Granny held out the key. 
Her hand shook with eagerness. 

To please her, Lissy slipped the key in 
the lock. To her surprise it fitted. 

“Press hard,” said Granny. 

Lissy pressed hard. In an instant, up 
flew the whole inside of the box. There, on 
a faded lining of red satin, lay a mass of 
shining pearls. They were small, but how 
they glistened. 

Granny drew them out, her hands caress- 
ing them. 

“I wore them when I married your great- 
grandfather,” she said. “And I gave them 
246 


THE PEARL BOX 

to your mother when she married Peter 
Penny. Margaret and Eunice never knew 
it,” she chuckled. “They thought the 
pearls were lost.” 

The two little granddaughters stared at 
each other. Granny slipped the pink cord 
with the key on it over her own head. Then 
she lay back on her pillows and with a smile 
went off to sleep. The precious old box 
with its gleaming pearls was held fast in 
both her hands. 

Lissy and Marjory went softly over to the 
window to talk it all over. 

“Why, Lissy Penny,” whispered Marjory, 
breathless with excitement, “IVe seen that 
box on your table always in The Penny 
Bank, and never once dreamed what was in 
it.” 

“IVe always loved it,” said Lissy. “I 
used to sleep with it, sometimes. And I’ve 
247 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

always carried it with me. Don’t you re- 
member it went to Doris’s wedding?” 

Marjory nodded. 

“I just had to bring it this time,” went on 
Lissy. ^^Aunt Melissa wanted to buy me a 
new work-box. Just suppose she had, Mar- 
gie.” 

^‘Those lovely pearls are really yours,” 
said Marjory. 

“Mercy me,” cried Lissy. “You don’t 
suppose so — really — ^do you?” 

“Of course. Granny gave them to me on 
my birthday,” said Marjory slowly. “But 
that was when she thought I was you. And, 
anyway, she gave them to our mother first. 
I guess they’re yours, Lissy.” 

Grandma slept a long time. Lissy fin- 
ished her apron. Marjory went back to 
her book. But every few minutes, she said 
something about the lovely pearls. And 
248 


THE PEARL BOX 


how strange it was and how lovely it was 
that Lissy had brought them back to 
Granny. 

When Granny opened her eyes, the first 
thing she saw was the little old box with the 
pearls gleaming on their satin lining. 

^‘Try them on, little granddaughters,” she 
said, in her sweet, eager little fashion. 

“We may as well please her,” said Lissy. 

“Lissy first,” said Granny, “she’s the 
oldest.” 

Awkwardly, Lissy slipped the gleaming 
things over her head. She had just put on 
the gingham apron to see if the patch looked 
very bad. The pearls shimmered down 
over it. But they didn’t look quite as if they 
belonged there. And Lissy’s face above 
them was flushed and anxious. 

As soon as Granny would let her, she 
slipped them off. 


249 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“Now, Margie,” said Granny, “you try 
them.” 

Marjory could scarcely wait to try the 
pearls. She dropped them over her head. 
They slipped into place and nestled around 
her neck and down over her little white 
gown quite as if they liked it there. Mar- 
jory grew pink with pleasure at their beauty. 
She twined them about her little hand and 
dropped a curtsey at Granny. 

In the middle of the curtsey, in came 
Grandma Beach. 

“Where did they come from?” she cried. 
She was startled out of her usual calm at 
sight of the string of old jewels. 

“They were in the little old box. 
Grandma,” cried Lissy. “They have al- 
ways been there, I suppose. But father and 
I never knew it.” 

“I gave them to Margaret,” said Granny. 

250 


THE PEARL BOX 

“I didn’t care if she did marry Peter Penny. 
He was a good man, and I always said so.” 

Celia came in just then. When she had 
heard all about the finding of the pearls, she 
bustled them all out of the room, and said 
Granny must rest till supper-time. Mar- 
jory took off the beautiful necklace and 
slipped it into Granny’s hand. 

Then she followed Grandma Beach and 
Lissy downstairs. Lissy hurried out into 
the kitchen to get Granny’s supper-tray 
ready. Grandma Beach stopped in the liv- 
ing-room to shout the news about the pearls 
into Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet. Marjory 
went slowly down to the willow-nest. 

^‘Do tell,” cried Aunt Eunice, when the 
news finally reached her. ‘‘So there’s where 
they’ve been all this time. Now, Granny 
will give them to one of the children. 
Which one, do you think, Margaret?” 

251 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“They belong to Melissa,” said Grandma. 
“She’s the oldest.” 

“They just suit Margaret,” said Aunt 
Eunice. 

“They’ll both want them,” said Grandma 
Beach grimly. 

It was just at this minute that Marjory 
slipped back into the room. 

“Lissy isn’t here, is she. Grandma?” she 
said, getting close to Grandma to make her 
hear right. 

“Melissa is busy in the kitchen,” said 
Grandma. 

“It’s about the pearls,” said Marjory. 
“You see. Grandma, Granny really gave 
them to me for my birthday.” 

“She supposed you were Melissa then,” 
said Grandma Beach sternly. “Melissa is 
the oldest girl in the family.” 

“I know it. Grandma,” said Marjory. 

253 


THE PEARL BOX 

“I want the pearls dreadfully, myself. But 
I want Lissy to have them, please, if you 
can get Granny to give them to her. She’s 
never had anything pretty like them in all 
her life.” 

“I see,” said Grandma. “Well, here she 
comes, now.” 

Marjory ran out of the room. Lissy, 
flushed and anxious, came in. 

“Grandma Beach,” she said, speaking 
slowly and clearly, “do you suppose 
Granny’ll ever give it back to me? It does 
seem as if it’s mine.” 

“It is, by right,” said Grandma Beach. 
“You’re the oldest, Melissa.” 

“Am I very selfish to want it back?” said 
Lissy. 

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” said Grandma 
Beach. But somehow her face looked dis- 
appointed or surprised or something. 

253 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

^‘Necklace?” cried Lissy. ‘‘Oh, Grandma 
Beach, I don’t mean the pearls. Of course, 
when Granny gives them to any one, she will 
give them to Margie. Why, they look just 
like her. How would a Penny like me look 
in such lovely things? It isn’t the pearls. 
It’s — it’s the box. Grandma. The little old 
box. You see, I’ve always had it ever since 
I can remember. And I don’t see how I 
can get along without it. Do you suppose 
Granny will give it back to me, by and by, 
when she gets well?” 


254 


CHAPTER XV 

GOOD TIMES CAMP 



'EXT morning Granny was much 
better. It almost seemed that 
finding the long-lost pearls had 


cured her. 

She didn’t say another word about them. 
But whenever her eyes fell on the little 
old box on the stand beside her bed, she 
chuckled to herself. Sometimes she opened 
it, took out the pearls, and twined them 
about her hands. 

One morning, when Granny was so much 
better that she was downstairs again, Roger 
came to The Willows to see if Lissy and 
Marjory could go to Good Times Camp. 

Lissy was sure she couldn’t be spared. 

255 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

But Celia said she could get on nicely now 
without any help. 

So Molly was harnessed to her cart. And 
with the usual basket of lunch, away they 
went, Roger driving as usual. ^ 

‘‘It does seem good to be going up there 
again,” said Marjory. 

Molly seemed glad, too. She scampered 
along, taking little sidesteps now and then 
and climbing the hill gayly. 

“How small these woods look,” cried 
Marjory, “since weVe seen those around 
Uncle Ben’s camp. And what a baby 
mountain this is.” 

“I told you it wasn’t like a real moun- 
tain,” said Roger. 

“What is the matter with you, Lissy 
Penny?” cried Marjory. “You haven’t 
said one word except those I’ve made you 
this whole morning.” 

256 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


“I’m sorry,” said Lissy. “But I keep 
thinking and thinking that maybe I sha’n’t 
ever come up here again.” 

“Why not?” cried Marjory. She leaned 
out to stare around Roger at Lissy. Dad- 
dy’s letter says we can stay till October.” 

“You can,” said Lissy. “But I was to 
stay a month, you know. Then, if I didn’t 
like it or the Grandmas didn’t invite me to 
stay longer I was to go home.” 

“But don’t you like it?” said Marjory. 

“I love it,” said Lissy. “And I can’t bear 
to go home — anyway without you, Margie. 
But the month’s up day after to-morrow. I 
never remembered it till this very morning. 
And the Grandmas haven’t invited me to 
stay any longer.” 

“They will,” said Marjory. 

Lissy shook her head. 

“Grandma doesn’t like me like she does 


257 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

you, Margie,” she said. ‘‘And she doesn’t 
like father. She always says ‘Peter Penny’ 
or ‘Your father.’ Why can’t she say ‘my 
son,’ just the way father says ‘my daughter’ 
to Doris?” 

“Oh, dear, I don’t know,” said Marjory. 
“Maybe that’s just her way, too, Lissy.” 

“The worst of it is,” went on Lissy, as 
gloomy as ever Lissy could be, “I wanted 
to make up things between them. And it 
isn’t done, and I can’t do it and I might just 
as well go home and be done with it.” 

There wasn’t anything either Marjory or 
Roger could think of to say to this. Roger 
never found much to say to Lissy anyway. 
So it was an unusually glum little trio that 
climbed down from the cart and went into 
the camp. It had been closed so long that 
its doors and windows had to be opened to 
air it out. Then there was some picking up 
258 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


to do, and Lissy suddenly decided she would 
sweep and dust. She was soon too busy to 
remember unpleasant things, singing at the 
top of her lungs. 

On the porch, Marjory tried to get Roger 
to make a picture of the camp. 

“I can’t,” said Roger. 

“Why don’t you take lessons so you can?” 
said Marjory. “Uncle Ben says you have 
real talent, Roger.” 

“I did take lessons,” said Roger. “And 
Dick was going to let me go on, but — ” 
Roger stopped short, and the old frown 
came back into its place. 

“Never mind,” said Marjory quickly, “if 
it’s going to make you look like that. Let’s 
talk about something else.” 

“Let’s go down to my hammock,” said 
Roger, “Lissy does make such a dust and 
such a noise.” 


259 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Down in the cool little hollow among the 
evergreens, with the gurgle of the spring 
near by, you couldn’t be cross no matter how 
much you wanted to be. Roger lay in the 
hammock and laughed at Marjory, who 
tried to catch fish from the brook in her 
hands. Molly, loose from her cart, browsed 
about happily. 

“Dinner time,” said Lissy, coming briskly 
down from the camp. 

“The sun’s getting here now,” said Roger. 
“Let’s go back to the porch. I’ll bring the 
milk,” he added, fishing it out of the spring 
where it had been put to keep cool. 

The lunch was spread out on paper nap- 
kins. There was a pile of Celia’s best sand- 
wiches, plenty of cookies, and some great 
ripe peaches. 

“We’ll have music while we eat,” cried 
Roger, when they were all ready. 

260 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


He ran inside the camp, and set the vic- 
trola going. 

^Teaches don’t come first,” he said, when 
he came back, and sat down on one of the 
red cushions. 

“Mine does,” said Lissy. She set her 
teeth into a round rosy peach. “I just can’t 
wait till dessert for it.” 

“ ^Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, 
Mavourneen!’ ” sang a divine tenor voice 
from the victrola. 

Marjory was just passing the sandwiches 
to Roger. There was a sound of quick 
heavy steps through the underbrush, down a 
road just in front of the camp, which had 
never seemed interesting enough to follow. 
Next minute, into the clearing came a 
tall, thin man with keen, snapping black 
eyes. 

“And what are we doing here?” he asked 

?61 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


in a voice that snapped like his eyes. 

‘‘Eating lunch,” said Lissy. “Have a 
cooky?” she added hospitably. 

“Didn’t know you’re trespassing, hey?” 
said the man. 

The three children stared at him. 

“ ‘Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, 
Mavourneen!’ ” sang the voice from the vic- 
trola. 

“Who’s inside?” said the man. “I’ll just 
have a word with him.” 

That was too much. As the tall man en- 
tered the camp, Marjory and Lissy screamed 
with laughter. Roger rolled over on his 
cushion and laughed aloud. 

“Funny, isn’t it?” cried the man, coming 
back, his face red and angry. “Who’s ma- 
chine is that, anyway?” 

“Mine,” said Roger. He stopped laugh- 
ing and got to his feet. 

262 





GOOD TIMES CAMP 


“That’s a likely story,” said the man. 
“And whose camp is this?” 

“Ours,” said Marjory. 

“Not much, it isn’t,” said the man. He 
stood tall and threatening above the chil- 
dren. 

“It’s our play-house,” said Roger. 

“It is, is it?” said the man unpleasantly. 
“Well, we’ll see about that. Now listen. 
This camp is on private land. And who- 
ever comes here for anything whatever tres- 
passes. So you’re trespassers. Under- 
stand?” 

Roger was trying to think where he had 
heard that word “trespass” before lately. 

“In the next place,” went on the man in 
a voice big enough for the biggest tres- 
passer that ever trespassed anywhere, “this 
camp happens to belong to The Sportsman’s 
Club of New York City.” 

263 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

‘‘I picked up a card with that name on it 
to-day, when I swept,’’ said Lissy, caught by 
his last words. 

‘‘Did, did you?” said the man. “Well, 
then, you ought to know you’re trespassing. 
Now, you’ll have to settle up. About how 
much damage do you think you’ve done 
here, anyway?” 

“Not any,” said Marjory. “You see, 
we’ve cleaned it up and furnished it. So 
it’s really much nicer than it was when we 
first found it. All these things are 
ours.” 

“Well, they may be and they may not. 
But if they are, they don’t belong here. 
And the sooner ye move them out, the bet- 
ter for you. Curtains, cushions, victrola — 
all the junk.” 

“We haven’t done a bit of harm,” said 
Roger sturdily. He was scowling his 
264 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


blackest now. ‘^You can see that for your- 
self.” 

^‘You broke in to begin with,” said the 
man. 

“I suppose we did,” said Roger. “But 
we didn’t know it belonged to any one in 
particular.” 

“Didn’t see no signs, Wo Trespassing,’ as 
you came up the road from The Pines, did 
you?” said the man. He waved his hand 
toward the road up which he had just come. 

“We didn’t come that way,” said Mar- 
jory. “We drove up the other road.” 

“Thought this camp was just set down 
here for you, I suppose?” asked the man. 

That was just what Marjory had thought. 

“Couldn’t we rent it just till the end of 
the season?” she asked. “After that we 
wouldn’t need it — that is, not till next sum- 
mer. Then Uncle Ben Baker’s bunch is 
265 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

coming, and we’ve promised it to them, you 
see.” 

^‘Ben Baker’d be the last man on earth to 
let you have this camp,” said the man. 
‘‘He’s the very one that called the matter to 
my attention. Said some one was trespass- 
ing up here. Didn’t know who it was, did 
he?” 

“No,” said Roger. He remembered, 
now, where he’d heard the word “trespass.” 

“Does it belong to him?” asked Marjory, 
still hopeful. “Uncle Ben would surely let 
us rent it.” 

“It belongs to The Sportsman’s Club, I 
tell you,” said the man. “It isn’t for rent. 
But if it was, you couldn’t rent it. It would 
take some money to rent this camp, I can 
tell you. Now, get these duds out of here 
— or you’ll find out what will happen. I’ve 
written The Sportsman’s Club.” 

266 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


‘We can’t get them out to-day,” said 
Roger. ‘We’ve just a little cart and a pony. 
And it’s a long way.” 

Just here, Molly, who had been grazing 
by herself, stuck her friendly face around 
the corner of the camp. 

“Horse grazing, too,” said the man, “and 
doing all sorts of damage. You ought to be 
fined good and heavy to help you remember 
to leave other folks’ things alone after this. 
But if you’ll get out of here at once. I’ll do 
my best to get you off easy this time. But 
you’ll have to hustle.” 

It was a sorry little load that drove down 
the hill-road that afternoon. Marjory told 
Granny all about it at once. Lissy told 
Celia and Wesley. Celia told Grandma. 
And one by one, they shouted most of it into 
Aunt Eunice’s ear-trumpet. 

“That must have been Phil Archer from 
267 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Ridgewood,” said Wesley. He laughed to 
himself. ^‘To think you kids have been 
playing in that hunting-lodge all summer 
and no one ever even suspected it. It be- 
longs to the swellest Club in New York, IVe 
heard. It hasn’t been open, now, in two or 
three summers.” 

‘‘Can’t I rent it, Wesley?” cried Marjory. 
“I’ve plenty of money. And we must have 
it next summer.” 

“I’ll tell you what. Miss Margaret,” said 
Celia, comfortingly. “I’d just shut it up 
now, and next summer, if you can’t rent it, 
we’ll find some other place just as good. 
And you shall furnish that.” 

“No other place could be quite so good, 
Celia,” said Marjory. “It’s just like losing 
your own home.” 

She was sober all through supper. At its 
close, she slipped away to her room. When 
268 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


she came downstairs, she had a letter in her 
hand. 

“It can’t do any harm to ask them,” she 
said. “I copied the address from that card 
you brought home, Lissy, and I’ve offered to 
rent it for a month yet this year and all next 
summer.” 

She was so important about it, that both 
Celia and Lissy laughed. 

“Did you tell them you had used it rent- 
free all summer?” asked Wesley from the 
kitchen porch. 

“That lawyer-man’s done that,” said 
Marjory. “So I didn’t take time.” 

Marjory ran over to The Pines to show 
Roger the letter before she mailed it. 

He was tired and white and lay in his 
hammock. 

“Mr. Spicer says we’ll have to get out,” 
he said. 


269 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

^Wait till I get an answer to this,” said 
Marjory. 

‘‘You won’t get it,” said Roger. 

“I always do get things,” said Marjory. 

Just at this minute, Lissy hurried up the 
steps. 

“I ran all the way trying to catch up with 
you, Margie,” she said. “Grandma’s sent 
me to mail this.” She held up a thin gray 
letter that looked like the one she had re- 
ceived from Grandma Beach last May. 
“It’s for father,” she added tragically. 
“And I just know it says to send for me to 
come home.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Marjory. “You can’t 
go, Lissy.” 

“Oh, yes, I can,” said Lissy, “if they don’t 
want me.” 

“There’ll be two of us to go,” said Roger. 
“’Cause Dick’s enlisted. He’s going to 
270 


GOOD TIMES CAMP 


war. And Sally and I are going back to 
Toronto.” 

Two very sober little granddaughters 
went slowly back toward the House of the 
Grandmothers. They stopped in the post- 
office and dropped in the two letters. One, 
in Marjory’s straight up and down school- 
girl hand, went to The Sportsman’s Club in 
New York. The other, in Grandma’s 
spidery writing, went to Mr. Peter Penny, 
also in New York. 


271 


CHAPTER XVI 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 

f ■ -^HE next day was so rainy that 
H Grandma Beach wouldn’t hear of 
any one’s going to Good Times 
Camp for any reason whatsoever. Lissy 
spent most of the morning packing up her 
things. Marjory spent most of it unpack- 
ing them. 

They talked it over with Celia. 

don’t know what your Grandma wrote 
your father, Miss Lissy,” she said. “I 
thought she was getting used to the idea of 
two granddaughters. But you never can 
tell. If she’s decided to keep you, you’ll 
stay, and if she’s decided to send you home, 
why, home you’ll go.” 

272 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


There wasn’t much comfort in that. 
Lissy went back to her packing. 

‘‘Everything’s in,” she said at last, “ex- 
cept the little box. I do want it dreadfully, 
but, of course, I can’t ask Granny for it. 
Anyway, it isn’t on the stand any more — it’s 
been gone three days, now.” 

“You’ll have to take out something to 
wear to-morrow, Lissy Penny,” said Mar- 
jory. “ ’Cause it’s Sunday, and Grandma 
isn’t going to send you home on Sunday.” 

“I’d forgotten all about Sunday,” said 
Lissy. She set about unstrapping the suit- 
case. “I’ll take out just the things I’ll 
need.” 

The rest of Saturday and the whole of 
Sunday dragged along. Not one word did 
Grandma say about Lissy’s going or stay- 
ing. Monday morning came, clear and 
cool after the long rain. Bright leaves here 
273 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

and there in the maples showed the first soft 
touch of fall. 

The children waited about all the morn- 
ing. No letter came from either The 
Sportsman’s Club, or Papa Penny. And 
nothing was said about Lissy’s going home. 

‘^They’re just waiting for father’s an- 
swer,” she said. ^Well, I can’t start to-day, 
anyway. So let’s go to Good Times Camp 
and break up housekeeping.” 

“Let’s wait for my letter,’^ said Marjory. 

“You’d have to keep house all alone,” 
said Roger, “even if you did rent it. Lissy 
and ril both be gone.” 

So, soon after dinner, they set out. They 
were to bring down what things they could 
in the cart. And late in the day, Wesley 
would drive up, get the others, lock the 
camp, and see that everything was left all 
right there. 

274 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


It was sober work moving out the little 
table and chairs, picking up and packing the 
dainty cups and plates, and taking down the 
curtains. They dragged everything but the 
victrola to the porch, piled them up, and 
put the two hammocks and the scarlet cush- 
ions on top. Then Lissy and Marjory sat 
down on the porch to rest, while Roger went 
down the road toward The Pines to look up 
Molly, who had strayed farther away than 
usual. 

In a few minutes, they heard him coming 
back, scrambling through the underbrush. 
Molly was neighing resentfully at such 
hurry. Up to the porch he came, dragging 
the little horse along by her halter. 

“They’re coming,” he said. 'T heard 
voices and I waited just a minute, and there 
they were — that lawyer-man and another 


man. 


275 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“Let them come,” said Lissy. Her face 
flushed. She stood up tall and straight on 
the lowest step. “They can see we’re all 
packed up ready to move out.” 

Marjory stood, making herself as tall 
as she possibly could, beside Lissy. And 
Roger, with Molly’s halter in his hand, 
stood next them. Molly put her head over 
his shoulder. There, in a solemn row, they 
all waited. 

They could all hear the voices now. The 
lawyer’s sneering one said, 

“Yes, sir, they broke in, and pastured a 
horse, and brought a victrola, and did no 
end of damage.” 

Almost at once, two men came in sight. 
As they did so, dropping Lissy’s hand, Mar- 
jory rushed straight toward them. 

“Daddy!” she screamed. “Daddy! 
Daddy!”- 


276 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


‘Why, Margie-girl!” cried the man with 
the lawyer. He caught Marjory right up 
in his arms. And at that same moment, 
Lissy bounded toward him, too, and Roger 
and Molly stood quite by themselves. 

“Where — where — where did you come 
from. Daddy?” cried Marjory, nearly 
smothering her father with her hugs. She 
was half laughing, half crying. 

“Oh, Mr. Brook,” cried Lissy, hopping 
up and down, and trying to get hold of one 
hand, “where did you come from?” 

“Well, well,” cried Marjory’s father, 
holding her fast, and reaching for Lissy, and 
staring at Roger and Molly. “Are — these 
— your trespassers. Archer?” 

“They are, Mr. Brook,” said the lawyer, 
utterly amazed. 

Mr. Brook threw back his head. It’s 
a wonder the summer-folks down at the 
277 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

hotel didn’t hear him laugh. He sat right 
down on the pine-needles, Marjory and 
all. 

“And you’ve brought me way up here to 
evict these kiddies?” he asked Archer when 
he could speak. 

“They broke in,” said Archer. 

“Why didn’t you say they were chil- 
dren?” 

“Didn’t know, myself, when I wrote,” 
said Archer. 

“But we haven’t done a bit of harm. 
Daddy!” cried Marjory. “And we’ve had 
the best times. Here’s Roger, Daddy. 
This is my very own Daddy, Roger. 
Didn’t I tell you he was the best Daddy in 
all the world? And you needn’t worry — 
everything’ll be all right now.” 

By this time, Roger and Molly had ar- 
rived and taken up their places beside Mar- 
278 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


jory, Lissy, and Mr. Brook. Mr. Brook 
held out his hand to Roger. 

‘‘Tell me all about it,” he said. 

“Are you The Sportsman’s Club?” cried 
Roger. 

“Not quite all of it,” said Mr. Brook, 
“but a fair-sized member. And they’ve sent 
me up here to look after this trespassing 
business.” 

“We didn’t mean to trespass,” said Roger, 
anxiously. 

“We just found this dear little house and 
moved in,” cried Marjory. “Why, Daddy, 
I wrote you all about it.” 

“They broke in,” said Archer again. 

“I don’t see any ‘No Trespassing’ signs 
about here. Archer,” said Mr. Brook. 
“And it was my old friend, Ben Baker, who 
found out about the trespassing, anyway, 
wasn’t it? Perhaps, you haven’t looked 
279 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

after the place very carefully for a summer 
or two?” 

The lawyer flushed. 

^‘The signs are on the road the cars 
travel,” he said. ^Who’d suppose any one 
would crawl up the other way and break 
in? With a horse and a victrola,” he added. 

^^Set it going, Roger,” said Mr. Brook 
unexpectedly. 

can look after the rest of this business, 
I think. Archer,” said Mr. Brook, as Roger 
ran into the camp. “And thank you for 
calling our attention to the matter. It has 
ended more happily than I expected. By 
the way,” he added, “I’ll let you know if we 
decide to rent the place. Some one up this 
way wants it, Blake said. What was the 
name — I’ve forgotten. A lady, wasn’t it? 
Blake seemed to think so. Anyway, I’ll let 
you know.” 


280 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


“Why, Daddy,” cried Marjory, “the name 
was Brook, of course! I should think you 
could remember that. And I’m the lady 
who wants to rent it.” 

“You?” cried Daddy. 

Just as he laughed again — one of his big- 
gest, jolliest laughs, Molly neighed, and the 
victrola started off on a gay jig of rejoicing. 
Mr. Archer didn’t like the victrola. And 
he saw he wasn’t needed another minute, 
anyway, and that the sooner he went, the 
better. So off he went down the road to- 
ward The Pines. 

“What on earth do you want to rent this 
shooting-lodge for, my lady?” said Daddy 
when he could speak. 

“For a summer home for the bunch and 
all of us, next summer,” explained Marjory, 
importantly. 

“And you wrote that letter that set 
281 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

The Sportsman’s Club to thinking?” he 
chuckled. 

‘‘Of course I didn’t know you were in it, 
Daddy,” she said. 

“Of course not,” said Daddy. “Well, as 
I am, and as the Club has left me to do as 
I like about renting their property and to 
set my own price and everything, I don’t see 
why I shouldn’t rent it to you. What 
would you be willing to pay?” 

“Why, I don’t know. Daddy,” said Mar- 
jory. “It doesn’t make much difference to 
me, you’d have to pay it, anyway.” 

“Let’s strike a bargain,” laughed Mr. 
Brook. “Lissy and Roger shall witness it. 
I’ll rent you this shooting-lodge, which you 
call Good Times Camp, for the rest of this 
season and all of next, if you’ll keep house 
for me this winter.” 

“We can,” cried Marjory, clapping her 
282 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


hands. “We can have Good Times Camp 
— didn’t I tell you so, Roger?” 

“Another victrola selection, please, 
Roger,” said Mr. Brook. 

“But where did you come from. Daddy?” 
cried Marjory again. She had asked this 
question whenever there was a chance ever 
since she’d first discovered Daddy. 

“Well, to begin with,” said Daddy, 
“there’s a War in Europe.” 

“Roger’s cousin Dick has enlisted,” said 
Marjory. “And Roger feels dreadfully.” 

Roger came back just then, while the vic- 
trola struck up a sprightly march. Mr. 
Brook made room for him on the step be- 
side him. 

“So, I sailed for home a month earlier 
than I had planned,” he went on. “I had 
to stop in New York to look after things. 
And I had a ’phone from Blake.” 

283 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


‘‘That’s Betty’s father,” explained Mar- 
jory to Roger. 

“He’d had a letter from Archer some time 
ago about the trespassing going on up here.” 
Mr. Brook had to stop to chuckle. “And 
also he said some one up this way had just 
written, wanting to rent the old lodge. 
Now, I was coming up here, anyway, to 
look after a small piece of property of mine, 
in which I’m much more interested than I 
am in shooting-lodges — ” 

“That’s me,” said Marjory, squeezing his 
hand. 

“So the Club suggested that I take over 
the business, collect damages, drive out the 
trespassers, and rent the camp, if I found 
the parties wanting it quite satisfactory.” 

“And you did,” said Marjory. 

Roger ran into the camp to shut off the 
victrola. When he came back, Mr. Brook 
284 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


was feeding Molly sugar-lumps which he 
had found in Marjory’s pocket. 

^Why, Lissy Penny,” he exclaimed sud- 
denly, quite forgot in my surprise to find 
who the trespassers were, to tell you that 
you are wanted at The House of the Grand- 
mothers at once.” 

^^Me?” cried Lissy. 

^‘You,” said Daddy. 

“Not Margie, too?” 

“Ju«t you,” said Daddy. “Roger’ll help 
harness Molly, and you hop into the cart 
and be off double-quick. Meanwhile, I’ll 
just help Marjory and Roger put back their 
furniture. Then we’ll come on in the car. 
It’s down the road a bit.” 

A very sober Lissy departed in the pony- 
cart. And in spite of having Daddy and 
in spite of the fact that she and Roger were 
putting back chairs and table and cups and 
285 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

plates in their places, and even re-hanging 
the curtains, Marjory couldn’t help remem- 
bering that while, as always, everything was 
coming out just right for her, Roger would 
have to go away, and Lissy was probably 
at this very minute being told that one 
granddaughter was enough in The House 
of the Grandmothers. 

“If Grandma told you to tell Lissy to 
come home,” she said at last, “I can’t see 
why she didn’t tell you where we were and 
about the camp and everything.” 

“I didn’t see Grandma,” said Daddy. “I 
thought I’d attend to business first, then go 
back and surprise you, Margie.” 

“But then, how did you know they wanted 
Lissy?” said Marjory. 

“I had a good reason for that,” said 
Daddy. “But it will keep till we get back 
to The House of the Grandmothers.” 


286 


UNEXPECTED GUESTS 


“If Lissy had come first,” went on Mar- 
jory, as they re-tied the last of the red cur- 
tain bows, “do you suppose they would have 
liked her better?” 

“Grandmothers are such queer things, 
Margie,” was all that Daddy would say to 
that. 

A little later, he turned the key in the lock 
and handed it to Marjory. 

“Here is the key to your property. Miss 
Brook,” he said. “But I shall be very par- 
ticular about the payments, you know. 
You must do all sorts of things for me this 
winter.” 

“We’ll be lost in that great house — just 
you and I, Daddy,” said Marjory. “But it 
will be nice being with you again,” she 
added, softly. 

At The Pines, Roger climbed down from 
the car. 


287 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“I’ll be over to say good-by, Margie,” he 
said. “Sally and I leave to-morrow or the 
next day.” 


288 


CHAPTER XVII 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 

Ijk X HERE does he live, Margie?’’ 
m/ m/ ^sked Daddy, as the car sped 
^ ^ along through Glenmore. 

‘‘He stays with Dick or Sally wherever 
they are; in Canada most of the time, I 
guess,” said Marjory. “And you mustn’t 
tell. Daddy, but there’s something the mat- 
ter with Roger. Something big that trou- 
bles him. He won’t even tell me what it is. 
Dick doesn’t want him to. Why, Daddy,” 
she broke off suddenly, “who is that?” 

They had turned into the drive of The 
Willows. There, down by the old tree, 
was Grandma Beach. She had one arm 
through the arm of a tall handsome man. 

289 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Her other arm was around Lissy Penny. 

“It’s Papa Penny!” cried Marjory. 
“Oh, Daddy, you brought him and left him 
here and that’s why you knew they’d want 
Lissy without any one’s telling you.” She 
fairly tumbled out of the car while the 
words tumbled out of her mouth. At the 
same minute, Lissy dropped Grandma’s 
hand, and came flying toward the car. 

“Father’s come!” she cried. “Grandma 
sent for him. And I guess they’ve talked 
everything over. Grandma’s been crying. 
But they’ve made up. And she likes him. 
And she likes me. She kissed me when I 
came, Margie, and her face was all wet. 
I’m to stay just as long as you do, now, and 
always come when you do and everything. 
Oh, Margie, isn’t it the splendidest?” 

When they came up to the willow, 
Grandma Beach kissed Marjory — a real 
290 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 

story-book grandmother kiss. And she said 
to Papa Penny, 

^^It took them both to bring things out 
right. Margaret began it — she is so like 
her mother. Then Lissy came. She may 
be like you, Peter Penny, but she’s like me, 
too. I was going to send her straight back 
to pay you off for letting Margaret come in 
her place. But when she stood up there, 
that night, and told me that the reason she 
hadn’t wanted to come was that I didn’t like 
you, it was exactly what I would have done 
myself. And I couldn’t send her home. 
Then the longer I kept her, the longer I 
wanted her. I don’t know what we’d ever 
have done without the dear child when 
Granny was so sick. I’m proud of both my 
granddaughters,” she added. 

Giving one of her fine strong old hands to 
each. Grandma Beach led the way in to sup- 
291 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

per. When Marjory would have slipped 
into her usual place, next Grandma Beach, 
Grandma shook her head. 

“Lissy is really the oldest granddaugh- 
ter,” she said; ‘‘she must sit next me. And, 
Celia, my son will sit at the foot of the table, 
please.” 

Marjory took Lissy’s old place next 
Granny. And when Grandma Beach said 
“my son” and Papa Penny said, “Thank 
you, mother,” it would have been hard to 
tell which granddaughter looked happier. 

During supper, every one talked. 
Grandma Beach seemed to have forgotten 
about children being seen, not heard. They 
found out, then, that Grandma’s letter to 
Peter Penny had reached him just about the 
time Marjory’s had The Sportsman’s Club. 
And when Peter Penny ’phoned Mr. Brook 
to find if he could be spared for a day or so, 
292 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 


Mr. Brook offered to take him along in his 
car. 

^^And, oh, Roger,” said Marjory, later out 
under the willow, ‘‘hasn’t everything come 
out just beau-ti-ful-ly?” 

“I should think it would,” said Roger, 
bitterly, “with such fathers and grandmoth- 
ers and everything as you and Lissy Penny 
have.” 

“Don’t be cross, please, to-night,” pleaded 
Marjory. 

“Margie,” said Roger, soberly, “wouldn’t 
you be cross, sometimes, if nobody anywhere 
really wanted you?” 

“There’s Dick,” said Marjory. 

“Dick’s going to war,” said Roger. 

“There’s Sally.” 

“Sally’s going to send me to some kind of 
a school, somewhere,” he said. “She told 
me so, to-night.” 


293 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

“Don’t you like school?” said Marjory. 

“Margie,” said Roger again. He sat up 
and faced her squarely where she sat on her 
red cushion in the willow-nest. “Would 
you like to go to school — or — or do anything 
else — if all the whole time you knew that 
most any minute you might be blind?” 

“Blind?” cried Marjory. She stared into 
the strange blue eyes. “Blind, Roger?” 

“That’s — what — makes me cross,” said 
Roger. “I wasn’t before I knew it, honest, 
Margie.” 

“Oh, Roger,” cried Marjory. She 
slipped one comforting little hand into one 
of his. “Oh, why didn’t you tell me be- 
fore?” 

“Dick wouldn’t let me,” said Roger, mis- 
erably. “He took me to New York early 
in the spring, and the doctors there said to 
send me into the woods and let me stay out- 
294 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 

doors and not draw any more or use my eyes 
tnuch, and not tell folks so they’d watch me 
every minute — I hate being watched, Mar- 
gie.” 

Roger paused, out of breath. Then he 
went on : 

^‘By and by, maybe there’ll be an oper- 
ation. There would be, if Dick could see 
to it himself. But he’ll leave it to Sally, 
now, and you know Sally can’t see to things 
like that. She hasn’t time. Dick said I 
could tell you — I wrote and asked him,” he 
added. 

Marjory didn’t say a word. She was 
thinking. She shut her eyes to see how it 
would feel to be blind. But that didn’t tell 
her. Because, of course, she knew all the 
time she could open them any minute, and 
see the trees and the river and the sunset 
sky. 


295 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


“I was going to be an artist/’ said Roger. 

‘T wish Lissy was here,” said Marjory. 
‘‘She’d know just what to say.” 

“I don’t want Lissy,” said Roger. “She 
bustles so, she tires me. I like you best, 
Margie, ’cause you’re always so quiet. And 
you don’t keep asking questions and staring 
at a fellow and everything.” 

“I have, I guess,” said Marjory. “But I 
won’t any more.” 

“There won’t be any ‘any more,’ ” said 
Roger. 

“May I tell Daddy, Roger?” 

“Tell any one, now,” said Roger. “The 
Grandmas know — Sally told them. And 
we’re going away, anyway.” 

Sally came dashing along just then in her 
trim little roadster, and carried Roger off 
with her. Marjory sat still in the old wil- 
low. It was almost dark when Daddy came 
296 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 

to look for her. He sat down just where 
Roger had been. And Marjory told him 
what Roger had told her. 

Daddy had already heard much of it from 
the Grandmas. And being Daddy, he was 
already thinking what could be done about 
it. For there must be something, he and 
Marjory were both sure of that. 

Until the stars came out and twinkled at 
themselves in the water. Daddy and Mar- 
jory talked and planned. As they went in, 
Lissy came across the front porch to meet 
them. 

‘‘I think Granny’s got the pearls,” she 
whispered. 

Together, the two little granddaughters 
went into the living-room. The lamps were 
lighted. A fire snapped cheerily in the 
fireplace. Granny sat in a little rocker. 
Her cheeks were pink and her eyes very 
297 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

bright. On one side of her sat Aunt Eunice. ; 
Grandma and Papa Penny were on the ; 
other side. \ 

“Granny’s got something for you, dearie,” ] 
she cried when she saw Marjory. ; 

“Oh, Daddy,” whispered Marjory, 
“make her give them to Lissy, please!” 

“From what Pve heard of her. Granny 
doesn’t make/^ he whispered back. 

Granny opened the little old box. There 
on its faded satin, lay the gleaming pearls. 
She lifted them and caressed them with ten- 
der hands. 

“ ’Tisn’t every one has two great-grand- * 
daughters,” she said. “And pearls, besides. ^ 
Here, Lissy, you’re the oldest,” she added 
briskly. 

Lissy looked appealingly at Grandma 
Beach. But Grandma Beach nodded to her I 
to go to Granny. ' 


298 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 


Granny slipped the gleaming string of 
pearls over the little red-brown head. 
They fell into place around Lissy’s plump 
little neck. 

‘Thank you, Granny, dear,’’ she said, try- 
ing to look pleased. “They are very beau- 
tiful.” 

She reached up to feel the pearls. To 
her surprise the string was close about her 
neck. The same minute, she saw that 
Granny still held a string in her hands. 

“Now, Margie,” she said. 

Wonderingly, Marjory came across the 
room. Over her head Granny slipped the 
second string of pearls. 

“Two little granddaughters,” she said; 
“pearls enough for two and so easy to have 
them re-strung. Now, because Lissy is the 
oldest, she shall have the case.” 

“I’d just like to sleep with it,” cried 
299 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Lissy, fairly hugging the little old box, later, 
as she and Marjory went to bed. 

don’t feel that I can ever sleep again 
in this world,” cried Marjory, drinking in 
the beauty of the pearls as they lay in the 
lamplight on the old bureau. 

But she did sleep all night long. Next ^ 
morning she found that Daddy had had a 
long talk with Grandma Beach about : 
Roger, and had already sent a telegram to : 
Cousin Dick. 

Daddy and Papa Penny were both going ' 

to stay another day. j 

'a 

“There are some things more important \ 
than business,” said Daddy. | 

Late that day an answer came to Daddy’s ; 
telegram. It sent Marjory scampering j 
down the street of Glenmore to The Pines. ; 
Roger was in his hammock corner. Mar- : 
jory remembered how he’d never liked noise ' 
300 


UNDER THE OLD WILLOW 

and never liked sun, how tired he had been 
the day they were lost — so many, many 
things. She stopped running and came 
to him quietly. He didn’t see her till she 
was close to him. 

“Roger,” she said, “I’ve something splen- 
did to tell you. Listen, — you are coming 
to stay with Lissy and me another whole 
month at The Willows. The Grandmas 
want you to. Then Daddy’s coming for us 
and he’s going to take you with us back to 
New York. And you’re going to see the 
doctor — as many doctors as Daddy thinks 
best. And if they all think best, you are to 
have the operation. Yes, you are,” she 
cried at the look in Roger’s eyes. “Daddy’s 
planned every single bit of it. He’s tele- 
graphed Dick, and Dick’s telegraphed 
'Yes.’ And here is Daddy now coming up 
the steps to tell Sally.” 

301 


CHAPTER XVIII 


TWO LETTERS AND A POSTSCRIPT 




I T was a day bright with November sun- 
shine. Yellow leaves drifted down 
from the old willow. Some of them 
heaped themselves up in the empty willow- 
nest. Others sailed away down the river. 

Two letters came together to The House 
of the Grandmothers. Celia read them 
aloud while Grandma Beach and Aunt 
Eunice and Granny listened. 


^^Dear Grandma Beach,” said Lissy’s 
letter, 

“This will be a short letter because I 
wrote you just day before yesterday. 
But the splendidest thing has happened — 
or is going to. And don’t you think that 
things that are going to happen are almost 
as nice when they’re going to, as when 
they really happen? 

302 


TWO LETTERS AND A POSTSCRIPT 


“I’m going to New York to spend the 
winter with Doris and John. Marjory 
and 1 are going to the same school. Aunt 
Melissa says she can look after the little 
Pennys all right. And of course father 
and 1 will be home almost every Sunday 
to help. I’m so excited I can’t write an- 
other word. 

“I’m just counting the days till Christ- 
mas. It will be so lovely to see you 
all. Love to you and everybody. Tell 
Granny the little box with the pearls in 
it is going with me to New York. 

“Your own granddaughter, 

“Lissy.” 

Grandma Beach smiled as Celia folded 
Lissy’s letter. “I’m very fond of Melissa,” 
she said. 

Aunt Eunice nodded and smiled. 
Granny nodded and smiled, too. 

Celia took- the other letter from its envel- 
ope. It was little and pink. It looked like 
Marjory. It sounded like her, too. 

“Dearest Granny,” it said, 

“Oh, I just can’t write fast enough to 
303 


MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 


tell you everything. Roger has been to 
the specialist — the one he saw last spring, 
and he says being out-doors and having 
good times and everything have made his 
eyes better already. He thinks another 
whole year of resting them may make 
them almost well. And if it doesn’t, he’s 
just sure an operation will. Isn’t that 
wonderful? He wants to keep watch of 
Roger, himself, so Daddy is going to let 
him stay right here with me — maybe till 
the War is over. Roger isn’t cross now — 
only when the pain is very bad. 

“He mustn’t use his eyes at all — not 
even to draw one picture, the doctor says. 
But when one pops into his head, I write 
down all about it in the little book 
Grandma gave me for my birthday. 
Don’t tell any one, but some day I’m go- 
ing to write a real book, and Roger is 
going to make lovely pictures for it. 

“Lissy is coming to stay with John and 
Doris and go to school with me. We are 
going to tell Roger all we learn, and 
Doris will help him, too, so when he be- 
gins school he won’t be so far behind. 

“We’ll all be there for Christmas. It 
was so nice of you to ask Roger, too. 
Won’t we have a good time? How are 
Molly and Susy? Susy wrote me a letter, 
304 


TWO LETTERS AND A POSTSCRIPT 


and I’m going to answer it. She says 
Molly wants to turn in at The Willows 
now. She says when we come next sum- 
mer, we can drive her sometimes. Roger 
and I are going to invite Susy to Good 
Times Camp. 

“This is a long letter, but it hasn’t said 
half I want to tell you. Give my love to 
Grandma and Aunt Eunice and Celia and 
Wesley. 

“Your little great granddaughter, 
“Margie.” 

“I’m very fond of Margaret,” said 
Grandma, as Celia stopped reading. “And 
what good news of the little boy.” 

“There’s a postscript,” said Celia. She 
smiled as she read it. 

“What do you think is going to be done 
with the money we made in the circus. 
Granny? I saw Betty Blake’s mother the 
other day, and she told me. It is to be 
given to The Christmas Ship that is going 
to take presents to all those poor little chil- 
dren across the sea. Aren’t you glad you 
took part in the circus. Granny?” 

THE END 
305 




Selections from 
The Page Company’s 
Books for Young People 

THE BLUE BONNET SERIES 

Each large l'2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume ....... $1.50 

A TEXAS BLUE BONNET 

By Caroline E. Jacobs. 

“ The book’s heroine, Blue Bonnet, has the very finest 
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Inter-Ocean. 

BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTY 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Edyth Ellerbeck Read. 
“A healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every 
chapter .” — Boston Transcript. 

BLUE BONNET IN BOSTON; Or, Boarding- 

School Days at Miss North’s. 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Lela Horn Richards. 

“ It is bound to become popular because of its whole- 
someness and its many human touches .” — Boston Globe, 

BLUE BONNET KEEPS HOUSE; Or, The 

New Home in the East. 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Lela Horn Richards. 

“ It cannot fail to prove fascinating to girls m their 
teens .” — New York Sun. 

BLUE BONNET— DEBUTANTE 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

An interesting picture of the unfolding of life for 
Blue Bonnet, 

A—l 


THE PAGE COMPACTS 


THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES 

By Harrison Adams 

Each 12mOf cloth decorative, illustrated, per 
volume ■ . $1.50 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO; Or, 

Clearing the Wilderness. 

Such books as this are an admirable means of stimu- 
lating among the young Americans of to-day interest in 
the story of their pioneer ancestors and the early days of 
the Republic.” — Boston Globe. 

THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES; 

Or, On the Trail of the Iroquois. 

“ The recital of the daring deeds of the frontier is not 
only interesting but instructive as well and shows the 
sterling type of character which these days of self-reliance 
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Or, The Homestead in the Wilderness. 

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Or, In the Country of the Sioux. 

“ Vivid in style, vigorous in movement, full of dramatic 
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City. 

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“There is plenty of lively adventure and action and 
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Or, In the Wilderness of the Great Northwest. 

“ The story is full of spirited action and contains much 
valuable historical information.” — Boston Herald, 

A—? 


BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE HADLEY HALL SERIES 

By Louise M. Breitenbach 
Each large 12mOt doth decorative ^ illustrated, per 
volume $1.50 

ALMA AT HADLEY HALL 

“ The author is to be con^atulated on having written 
such an appealing book for girls.” — Detroit Free Press. 

ALMA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR 

“ It cannot fail to appeal to the lovers of good things 
in girls’ books.” — Boston Herald. 

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“ The diverse characters in the boarding-school are 
strongly drawn, the incidents are well developed and the 
action is never dull.” — The Boston Herald. 

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“Incident abounds in all of Miss Breitenbach’s stories 
and a healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every 
chapter .” — Boston Transcript. 


THE GIRLS OF 
FRIENDLY TERRACE SERIES 

By Harriet Lummis Smith 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume $1.50 

THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE 

A book sure to please girl readers, for the author seems 
to understand perfectly the girl character.” — Boston 
Globe. 

PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION 

“It is a wholesome, hearty story .” — Utica Observer, 

PEGGY RAYMOND’S SCHOOL DAYS 

The book is delightfully written, and oontains lots d esccitiug 
incidents, 

A— 3 


TEE PAGE COMPANTS 


FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES 

By Charles H. L. Johnston 
Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 'per 
volume $2.00 

FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS 

“ More of such books should be written, books that 
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pleasant, informal way.” — New York Sun. 

“ It is a book that will stir the heart of every boy and 
will prove interesting as well to the adults.” — Lawrence 
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famous Indians with the whites for the possession of 
America is a worthy addition to United States History.” 
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The tales are more than merely interesting; they are 
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OF THE BORDER 

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the history of actual adventure.” — Cleveland Leader. 

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OF AMERICA 

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A-~4 


"BOOKS FOB YOUNG PEOPLE 


HILDEGARDE- MARGARET SERIES 

By Laura E. Richards 
Eleven Volumes 

The Hildegarde-Margaret Series, beginning with 
“ Queen Hildegarde ” and ending with The Merry- 
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of books for girls ever written. 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume . . . . . . . $1.50 

The eleven volumes boxed as a set . • $16.50 

LIST OF TITLES 

QUEEN HILDEGARDE 

HILDEGARDE ’S HOLIDAY 

HILDEGARDE’S HOME 

HILDEGARDE’S NEIGHBORS 

HILDEGARDE’S HARVEST 

THREE MARGARETS 

MARGARET MONTFORT 

PEGGY 

RITA 

FERNLEY HOUSE 

THE MERRYWEATHERS 
A— fi 


THE PAGE COMP ANTS 


THE CAPTAIN JANUARY SERIES 

By Laura E. Richards 

Each one volume, 12mo, cloth decorative, illus- 
trated, per volume 75 cents 

CAPTAIN JANUARY 

A charming idyl of New England coast life, whose 
success has been very remarkable. 

SAME. Illustrated Holiday Edition , . $1.35 

MELODY : The Stort of a Child. 

MARIE 

A companion to “Melody” and “Captain January.” 

ROSIN THE BEAU 

A sequel to “ Melody ” and “ Marie.” 

SNOW-WHITE; Or, The House ik the Wood. 

JIM OF HELLAS; Or, In Durance Vile, and a 
companion story, Bethesda Pool. 

NARCISSA 

And a companion story, In Verona, being two delight- 
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“SOME SAY” 

And a companion story. Neighbors in Cyrus. 

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“ ‘ Nautilus ’ is by far the best product of the author’s 
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richly merits.” 

ISLA HERON 

This interesting story is written in the author’s usual 
charming manner. 

THE LITTLE MASTER 

“ A well told, interesting tale of a high character.” — 
California Gateway Gazette. 


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